


will i ever see that girl again, that girl from way back when

by ktlsyrtis, lavenderseaslug



Category: Holby City
Genre: F/F, boss babe, friends with bennies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2018-03-26
Packaged: 2019-03-14 01:48:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 41,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13583427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ktlsyrtis/pseuds/ktlsyrtis, https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderseaslug/pseuds/lavenderseaslug
Summary: It was a one-night stand twenty-five years ago, she left without saying goodbye. They didn’t think they’d ever see each other again, and certainly not with Serena Campbell as the new CEO of Holby, where Bernie Wolfe runs AAU. An arrangement is formed, on the clear understanding that they keep work and play separate. But it’s hard to stay unaffected when the heart gets involved.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to this fic! A joint effort between lavenderseaslug and ktlsyrtis because we can't stop ourselves. The fic will be posted in chapters every Monday! Please enjoy!
> 
> Title from "Way Back When" by Kodaline

_The door barely clicks shut behind them before they thud into the wall, kissing fiercely, bodies intertwined, pressed so close together it’s hard to tell where one ends and the other begins. Muffled gasps and moans are the only sounds in the dark hotel room; the rustle of fabric beneath frantic hands giving way to the whisper of skin on skin._

_A trail of clothing marks their path from the hallway to the bed, the bright moonlight shining through the window providing just enough illumination for their explorations. Bare legs tangle as hands trace curves for the first time, lingering on sensitive spots, teasing out noises of pleasure, of need._

_Lips at the jaw, the neck, the collarbone, lips making a trail down a bare stomach, aglow in the nighttime light. A gasp bursts, like a bubble, into the air as a tongue gently teases between thighs, a grinning mouth feasting on heady pleasures. There is no greater joy than this, no greater satisfaction._

_Everything is new, bathed in the pale light of the moon, everything is glorious. Back arched, toes curled, hands fisted in the sheets, it is a never-ending barrage of delight, an onslaught of hedonism. It goes on, for minutes, for hours, forever, for just a moment, time has ceased to exist in the face of such indulgence._

_And when they are spent, they fall asleep, blonde hair near invisible under the once-fresh quilt of the hotel, soft exhalations of breath proving she’s lost to the world. The brunette stares up at the ceiling, with unseeing eyes, hand resting at her neck, plucking thoughtfully at her skin._

-

Bernie Wolfe stares down at the pile of papers in front of her, a collection of paperwork she’s put off until now. She can’t keep putting off these forms, can’t keep shuffling them to the side because something more interesting comes along. She’s shut the office door, knows it’ll be too easy to jump onto a case, to overhear something from the nurse’s station and find any reason to set aside the papers.

When she left the army - was asked to leave, more like - she wasn’t sure she’d be able to practice medicine again, her body stitched together, barely able to stand without support. She’d recovered in this very hospital, gotten a job offer at the end of it to run the motley crew of AAU, a sort of messy assemblage of people, with no real order or structure. “Use your tactical expertise,” Henrik Hanssen had advised, his eyes inscrutable behind his glasses. So for the first few weeks, it was Major Wolfe reporting for duty. She approached her staff the way she did in the military, learned their strengths and weaknesses, and showed no mercy. It made her no easy friends, but earned respect at least.

Now, years later, she has friends enough, will go out for drinks with Raf and Fletch, Morven too. She’s not particularly close to her colleagues, nor does she need to be. An officer doesn’t always mingle with their troops. Her father taught her that, it’s etched into her brain. It keeps her life tidier that way, less muss, less fuss. Keep work and home separate, that’s the ticket. 

She’s saved from actually having to start on her paperwork by a knock on the door. “Come in,” she calls, and more than gladly sets her pen down, ink just pooling on the tip. It’s Raf, a sort of timid look on his face.

“The new CEO’s just cropped up. Bitch on wheels, if you ask me,” he says. “Wants to meet you.” Bernie’s used to having to impress suits, with talking up the merits of AAU, why no other ward does quite what they do. She stands, runs her hands down her scrubs, wrinkles unavoidable. She knows other consultants wear street clothes, look nice and professional, but it’s never been her style. She’s a doctor above all else, a surgeon. Scrubs are her uniform when she’s at work, and she keeps her regular clothes in her locker, changes as soon as she gets to the hospital. 

The woman has her back to Bernie, is examining something at the nurse’s station when Bernie approaches. She clears her throat, unsure of how to get this woman’s attention. She’s dressed in black from head to toe, beautifully tailored trousers that fall just so above the dangerously thin point of her red heels. Her blazer nips just in at her waist, the ends of her short brown hair, shot through with grey, just tickling the collar. “Ah, you must be Berenice Wolfe,” the woman says, her voice beautiful and low, and familiar in a way Bernie can’t quite place. As she’s about to turn, Bernie’s heart speeds up a bit - she just knows this woman is going to be beautiful, knows it deep inside. 

And when the woman is facing Bernie, her hand already out, Bernie’s heart screeches to a stop, drops into the pit of her stomach, because she’s seen this face before; those glittering brown eyes, the creases by the sides of her mouth, the dimple in her chin. She thinks about that face late at night, a hand between her thighs, the other fisted in the sheets. She thinks about that smiling mouth pressed up against her clit. She thinks about that smooth cheek sliding against her stomach. “It’s - ah - just Bernie,” she barely manages, grasping onto the woman’s hand like a lifeline, isn’t quite sure of how to proceed, of what to do, of anything, just now.

“S-Serena Campbell,” she answers haltingly, her hand gripping Bernie’s slightly and Bernie thinks she’s being remembered too, can’t stop the blush from flooding her cheeks.

So much for keeping work and home separate.

-

_click, click, click_

Serena’s heels rhythmically pace back and forth across her new office. Everything is exactly as she imagined it; an office a fair sight bigger than her first flat out of uni, windows overlooking the expanse of the hospital and the city beyond, a large mahogany desk with a plaque in the center that reads ‘Serena Campbell, CEO.’ It’s the culmination of everything she has worked for, everything she has sacrificed to get, the pinnacle of her entire career.

And at the moment she sees none of it. Is instead wearing a hole in her spotless floor, one hand on her hip, the other rolling her necklace between her fingers as her mind spins wildly, all because of Bernie Wolfe.

It’s strange to have a name to put to the face, that face that has haunted her dreams, featured in every fantasy for the past twenty five years. She would have known her anywhere; those dark, intense eyes, strong features that would be strange on anyone else but are beautiful on her, that messy blonde hair that, if Serena closes her eyes, she can still clearly remember the feel of tangled around her fingers as that thin, drawn mouth worked tirelessly to make her come again and again.

Serena thought she’d never see that face again, doesn’t know how she’s going to survive seeing it every day. This is hardly her first awkward run-in with a one night stand. She has the tools to bluff her way through such an encounter - a cheery tone and a sternly raised eyebrow - down to a science. But when she met Bernie’s eyes, shook her hand, improbably, _impossibly_ , all of the chemistry that had drawn them together twenty five years ago was still there, an instantaneous attraction Serena has never felt before or since, if she’s honest with herself.

Walking around her desk, she sinks into the plush leather chair with a groan, propping her elbows on the blotter and cradling her head in her hands. She has to find a way to deal with this, to compartmentalize her attraction to this woman. Otherwise, if today is any indication, she is going to have to keep spare knickers in her handbag for days when she has to meet with the head of AAU.

The ringing of her cellphone pulls her from her reverie and she fumbles it out of her bag, glad to have a distraction from thoughts of Bernie Wolfe.

“Serena Campbell.”

“Rena, darling! How does it feel to be the most powerful woman at Holby? Do you already have the consultants on their knees in terror, begging to kiss your Louboutins?”

Serena can’t help but laugh at the gloating in Sian’s voice. Her oldest friend, Sian has been with her through thick and thin, talking her into and out of trouble since their days together at uni, has supported her and kept her grounded as she rose through the ranks of the medical world. She’s been so invested that there are moments Serena can’t help but wonder if Sian is more excited about her new job than she herself is.

“Hardly. I’m sure they’re all in the lounge complaining about the new head bitch in charge as we speak.”

“Men are always intimidated by a powerful woman, you know that.” She can practically hear the grin in Sian’s voice. “Are any of them good looking?”

Serena rolls her eyes. “Sian, I’m the CEO. Of course there’s no one…” She trails off, dark eyes and a hesitant smile flashing through her mind, clears her throat. “Besides, it would be completely inappropriate.”

“Oh, so there _is_ someone!” Sian’s glee is palpable even through the phone connection. “Tell me _everything_.”

“Sian, I promise you, there are no men here I’m interested it.” Her fingers cross unconsciously on the surface of the desk, hopeful that her refutation will throw Sian off the scent.

“A woman, then. Ooh, it’s been a while since one turned your head. What’s she like? A blonde, I’d guess. You always have preferred them, not that I blame you.”

Serena hesitates, the memory of bright blonde curls surfacing once again. She knows she should just hang up, that no good can come of this conversation. But Sian’s the only person who knows about Bernie and before she can stop herself, Serena finds the words tumbling from her mouth.

“It’s funny you should say that,” she says lamely, fingers once again sliding her pendant along it’s chain. “It turns out I know one of the consultants, the head of AAU, actually. It’s, uh, it’s _her_.”

“Her? Her who?”

Serena huffs, annoyed by Sian’s obtuseness. “You know. _Her._ ” A beat passes and then the silence is broken by Sian’s sharp gasp.

“ _No! Her?_ You mean the woman who turned you?”

“Sian…” The reprimand in Serena’s voice is sharp and Sian immediately quails.

“Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean that. But honestly, darling, she did shag you so hard you had a...sapphic awakening.”

Serena wishes she could refute Sian’s words, but in truth that night had changed everything for her. It terrified her at the time, made her rethink everything she thought she knew about herself, but it led her to realize and eventually accept her attraction to women, though none of her subsequent encounters with the same sex have been as satisfying as one night with Berenice bloody Wolfe. She realizes after a moment Sian is still speaking, shakes her head and returns her focus to the conversation.

“What was that?”

“Mooning already, I see.” Serena scowls at the phone. “I was asking when you were going to invite her for a drink?”

“Never.”

“You can’t be serious! Are you really going to ignore this opportunity?”

“What opportunity?” Irritation spills over into anger, making her chest tight. “Sian, this isn’t a singles club, this is my place of work. And unlike you, I don’t approach every interaction looking for sex.”

“ _Please_. Don’t try and play the ‘holier than thou’ card with me, Serena Campbell. I remember when you…”

Serena cuts Sian off before she can get started listing the rank and file of Serena’s past sins. “Sian, I’m sorry, I have to go. Very important CEO business to attend to. Talk to you soon!” She stabs her finger at the red icon, cutting off a sputtering Sian, and slaps her phone down on the desk.

She spins her chair around, facing away from her desk, her work and steeples her fingers. She needs to get her head in order, needs to make peace with the fact that the woman she’s spent the last twenty-five years wondering about is just a few floors down, with those same deep brown eyes and that husky voice, and tries to suppress the part of her that can’t help but wonder if Bernie is thinking about her, too.

-

Where are my clothes?

 _That’s the first thought that flies into Serena’s head when she wakes up. She’s in a bed she doesn’t know, can see just the top of a blonde head she doesn’t know either. She takes stock of her surroundings. There’s a sheet, but it’s not doing much of anything, pooled at her hips. She did always run hot when she slept. Serena grabs at it, pulls it up over her bare chest, some semblance of modesty while she gathers her bearings. She can see daylight through the window, doesn’t recognize the view. There’s a hazy memory of coming to a hotel, shoving her credit card at the concierge, hand tangled with the - it comes back to Serena in a flash, hitting her all at once -_ woman _behind her._

_She cranes her neck towards the sleeping form, can just make out the pale skin of her face, the slight creases at her eyes as she sleeps, the soft moving of her chest as she breathes in and out. She’s...pretty. No, beautiful. Serena can admit that, can’t pretend she’s not attracted to that face, to that lithe body._

_Her brain, known for its acumen, its prowess, can’t quite process what it means to have spent the night with another woman. Does it mean that she’s gay? Does she like all women? Is this woman special? Was she sending out some kind of signal that made this woman think she was interested? Serena furrows her brow, tries to piece together the night before._

_Drinks with Sian, a weekly occurrence. Sian leaving her when she found a man willing to take her home, also a weekly occurrence. And then the waiter appeared with a drink, another glass of red wine, a gift from the blonde woman at the bar. At Serena’s smile, the woman came over, clinked the rim of her whisky glass against Serena’s. It was nice to have company, nice to not have to end the night drinking alone._

_But then the woman kissed Serena, just gently, on the cheek, her breath warm, and Serena couldn’t have stopped herself from turning her head to catch the other woman’s lips, it seemed inevitable, an instinctual reaction. She’d kissed girls at parties, after vodka shots. She’d kissed Sian on vacation once because Sian kept insisting Serena was a prude. But this is different, this is intentional and her mind isn’t clouded by cheap alcohol and schoolgirl giddiness._

_They shared a cigarette outside; it felt daring, wrong, illicit as Serena accepted the cigarette from the woman’s fingers and took a drag, her lipstick leaving a mark behind. She blew a cloud into the air, watched the smoke dissipate against the night sky, put the cigarette back to her lips, and this time, when she exhaled, she put her mouth close to the other woman’s, let the smoke hit her lips, then kissed her again._

_And there was a hotel across the street from the bar, a hotel Serena suggested they visit, not noticing the raise of eyebrows from the other woman. But she’d got that feeling in her veins, the feeling that she wanted to do something, an unstoppable urge that made her want to get a room for the night, that made her want to spend the evening kissing this woman, and whatever else may ensue._

_Serena flops back against the pillow, holds a hand to her forehead. One night stands aren’t out of her milieu, aren’t all that unusual - not that she’s catching up to Sian’s statistics any time soon, but she likes sex and doesn’t mind when it comes without commitment. She spares a glance at the woman again, tries to tamp down on the flush of pleasure that slides through her, the aching between her thighs, the thoroughly shagged feeling in her muscles._

_She hasn’t felt this sated in, well, ever. Hasn’t felt the same care and attention to her needs from any of the men she’s brought home. Long, thin fingers, smooth skin, soft curves, all felt preferable to the weight and smell of a masculine body, coarse chest hair and bumbling hands. It’s a revelation, this experience, but one she’s not quite sure what to do with. So her analytical mind decides to think about it later, to box it up and put it on a shelf for consideration when she’s less hungover, less overwhelmed._

_She knows she can’t face this woman, can’t wake up beside someone whose name she doesn’t know and have to explain that she’s never been with a woman before, never considered she might want to. Panic rises in her chest at the thought, and she has to take a few deep breaths, tell herself to keep it together just a little longer._

_And then she gets up from the bed, finds her clothes, scattered around the floor, her bra hanging from the back of the door to the bathroom, dresses and leaves, closing the door behind her with a soft_ snick _._


	2. Chapter 2

It’s been a week since Serena Campbell started work as CEO and Bernie has done everything in her power to avoid coming face to face with her. It's not as if Bernie gets called up for meetings in the CEO's office all that often anyway, but she still finds other things to do while Serena makes her rounds, familiarizing herself with her new hospital.

She does watch her striding through AAU, a gaggle of F1s and consultants cowering in her wake, formidable in her tailored suits and razor sharp heels. It's hard to reconcile with the young woman in her memory; soft brown hair, worn longer then, over a brightly colored dress, an irrepressible smile and sparkling eyes.

There's a charm to Serena too, though, that much is obvious to Bernie, made all the more clear when she overhears some nurses, both men and women, talking about their new boss; how attractive she is, and did you hear her laugh when Ric Griffin made that joke?

She's glad that Serena's clearly done so well for herself in her career, hopes Serena is genuinely happy, even if her heart does still clench at the memory of waking alone in a cheap hotel bed, only the lingering scent of perfume and sex and Bernie's sore muscles proving Serena had been there at all.

That they come face to face eventually is inevitable, Bernie realizes, hearing the toilet flush behind her, seeing the very distinctive heels below the stall door. She only wishes that the first time she meets Serena's eyes after their handshake wasn’t in her reflection in the mirror of the women's bathroom, as she's washing her hands.

"Hi," she says softly, doesn't say anything else, doesn't ask any of the millions of questions running through her head, doesn't tell her how nice she looks, how beautiful, how professional.

Serena moves to the sink, still watching Bernie in the mirror, holds her hands under the water, turning on automatically. "Fancy meeting you here." There's a smile hovering around her lips, a touch of coyness in her voice that reminds Bernie this is the same woman who unexpectedly kissed her over a table in a smoky bar.

“Of all the gin joints...” Bernie says, and Serena chuckles.

“You’re not much of a Humphrey Bogart, I’m afraid.”

“Though I do know something about a lady leaving in the middle of the night. Not on a plane, though, I imagine.” Bernie regrets the harshness of the words for a moment, sees Serena wince, her eyes flicking down to the chipped porcelain of the sink.

“I suppose I deserve that.” There isn’t malice in her tone, just quiet acceptance.

“Mmmm,” Bernie says, lets the moment sit between them, isn’t sure how to bridge the distance, how to turn this conversation into anything else.

“I am sorry, by the way,” Serena says, pulling a towel from the dispenser, patting her hands dry. “It was my first time.....with a woman. It was new and different and....perhaps I handled it poorly.” Bernie doesn’t know what to do with this admission either, the idea that she was this beautiful woman’s entrance into sapphic dalliances.

“First time?” She can’t help but ask, tries to keep her voice neutral. Serena meets her eyes again and some of the sparkle that first attracted Bernie is there.

“Not the last time, though.” At Bernie’s raised eyebrows, she adds, “Well, twenty five years is a long time. And that night was nothing if not…eye-opening.” The smile that Bernie remembers so clearly creases Serena’s cheeks, and Bernie can see the lines that age has wrought, the beautiful wrinkles that speak to her experience.

“I’m glad it was memorable,” she says wryly, still slightly in disbelief that she’s having this conversation with the mystery woman who’s existed in her thoughts for so many years. 

Serena’s cheeks pink, her hand coming to rest at the base of her throat, and Bernie thinks perhaps she’s said more than she meant to. She wonders if every interaction between them is destined to get a little out of hand.

“You, ah, you seem well. Everyone says AAU is in excellent hands.” The atmosphere eases a little as Serena retreats to the topic of work, leaving Bernie simultaneously relieved and disappointed.

“I was always good with my hands.” Bernie can’t resist it, can’t stop the words from coming out of her mouth, just as she can’t help but enjoy the beautiful pink flush that tinges Serena’s cheeks. “And look at you. It’s no small feat to be CEO of a hospital. And as a woman no less.”

“Well you know me. I do always like to be on top.”

Bernie lets out a full-throated laugh, the loud honk bouncing off the bathroom tiles, tries to hold it back but it’s too late for that. Serena’s eyes go wide and then she’s laughing too, bracing herself on the edge of the sink, her other arm wrapped around her stomach.

“I haven’t had a laugh like that in ages,” Serena says, wiping tears from her eyes once they finally get ahold of themselves.

Clutching her side as her chuckles dwindle, Bernie can’t stop herself from staring at Serena; her teary eyes filled with mirth, mouth smiling wide. She’s beautiful, so beautiful, and Bernie can’t tear her eyes away, even knowing she must look like a lovestruck schoolgirl. And then Serena’s looking back, and there’s something in her eyes that tugs at Bernie’s insides, makes her feel like she’s back in that smoky bar, wondering if the pretty girl across from her could be feeling the same. She opens her mouth to say something, anything. 

The door swings in as a nurse bustles into the bathroom and they jump apart as if they had been caught snogging. Bernie can feel the heat on the back of her neck, knows she must be blushing a hundred shades of red.

“I’m just, ah, going to go,” Bernie says, pointing at the door, and the nurse gives her the kind of look that makes Bernie know she’s not being casual in the least

“Be seeing you, Ms. Wolfe,” Serena calls as Bernie pushes the door open, and Bernie can feel her face redden further, only manages an awkward half-wave, doesn’t look back, but can picture the cheeky grin on Serena’s face.

The memory of Serena’s smile stays with her as she heads home after the end of her shift, Serena’s laugh echoing in her ears as she reheats last night’s takeaway. Curry bowl sitting empty on the coffee table, she leans back on her dilapidated sofa, some show she’s barely watching on the television, filling her empty flat with white noise, her mind still filled with Serena.

Her thoughts are like an old blanket, wrapping around her as warmth coils in her belly, falling once again into her memories of Serena; still impossibly vivid after all this time, still able to ignite the heady spark of desire in her body. Memories of her touch, the softness of her skin, the sound of her voice. As her mind wanders down familiar paths, so does her hand, sliding over her stomach, popping the button of her jeans before pushing beneath.

Bernie’s eyes flutter shut, releasing her breath on a sigh as her fingers stroke through growing wetness, relaxing into the feeling, the routine she has followed for almost half of her life. Easy and comfortable, familiar and oh so effective.

And then suddenly it changes. The young Serena of her memory shifts, the lines of her face deepening, silky brown hair now cropped short and shot through with silver. The hands she remembers so fondly, hesitant as they mapped her body, become sure and firm in her mind, her fingers increasing the pressure against her clit in kind. That husky voice that had begged for her touch hardens, takes on an edge of command that has Bernie moaning, her hips bucking up from her sofa into her hand. 

She’s lost. Lost to the fantasy of Serena pressed close against her, Serena’s fingers stroking her just on the pleasurable side of rough, Serena’s voice hot and low in her ear, murmuring that she’s thought of Bernie, too, that she’s imagined Bernie’s touch, that she wants Bernie still.

It’s that thought that pushes Bernie over the edge, letting out a strangled cry as she clenches around her fingers. Her breath comes in heaving pants as she relaxes back against the sofa, limbs twitching with aftershocks, her still damp hand resting on the fluttering muscles of her stomach.

Guilt slides through her, cold and nauseating. It’s one thing to imagine the nameless woman from years ago, quite another to think about the woman she works for now, someone real and solid, who is no longer a fantasy, but someone who actually exists. Her head falls back against the sofa and she wonders just how she’ll be able to cope with seeing Serena at work every day.

-

Come end of day Friday, Sian whisks Serena away from the hospital on the promise of celebratory drinks, and while Serena is certainly happy enough to toast to her success, she has a feeling she knows what Sian’s primary focus will be. She’s proven right as the moment after Sian sips from her martini, she asks, “So what’s your plan with her?” 

She plays dumb. “With who?” Sian rolls her eyes, waits out Serena, waits for the admission. Serena sighs. “I don’t have a plan.” 

“No plan? You’ve only been talking about her for twenty five years.” She takes another sip from her cocktail and sets it down, sloshing the liquid slightly on the napkin.

“Oh, I have not.” 

“Maybe not out loud. But every time you see a blonde woman in a bar, tell me that’s not your first thought.” Serena can’t deny it, can’t say that Bernie doesn’t flit through her mind with surprising regularity. “Besides, when was the last time you actually had a date?”

“It was…” Her mind scrolls back through the months previous, grimacing when she finds she honestly can’t remember. “It’s not as if I haven’t been busy, Sian. Between hospital hours, research and fundraising events, when am I supposed to find the time to get to know someone?”

Sians gaze is sharp over the rim of her drink. “And now you have someone who already knows you - well, _some_ of you anyway. Seems like that should make the whole process a good deal easier, don’t you think?”

Serena hesitates then brushes away Sian’s words with a wave of her hand. “None of that matters, regardless,” she says. “She’s my co-worker. Not only that, she’s my subordinate. It would be totally inappropriate to pursue a relationship, even if I did have the time”

“Who said anything about a relationship?” It’s Serena’s turn to roll her eyes.

“I don’t see how another one night stand makes things any better.”

“There’s something between a one night stand and a relationship, Rena.” Sian’s voice has affected that patently condescending tone that she takes when she thinks Serena is being especially dim.

Serena twigs to her meaning, pauses to sip her wine. It’s not the kind of thing she would even consider, normally, but this situation is anything but normal, and now that Sian has turned a spotlight on it, she can’t help but think how long it’s been since she’s been with someone, especially someone who checks the trifecta of attractive, adept and available. The memory of how Bernie had looked at her in the ladies’ room surfaces, a look so similar to the one imprinted in her memory, a look that makes her wonder if Bernie might not be interested, too. She knows it’s probably insane, but the idea certainly holds some appeal.

“And you think...” she starts.

“Always thinking, that’s your problem. For once just let your twat lead the way.”

“Lovely.” Serena grimaces. “Just because your mind lives between your legs doesn’t mean mine should too.”

“Put aside whatever prudish notions you have in your head and think about it simply. What would make you happy?” Serena thinks about Bernie’s shining eyes, that ridiculous laugh, the way her lithe figure looks in her scrubs. 

“Pinning her to my desk and shagging her until she can’t see straight, for a start.” She says it quietly, afraid to admit it too loudly, afraid to admit it to herself, too.

Sian laughs, swallows the rest of her drink. “Well, my dear, it looks like you’ve got the beginnings of a very good plan.”

“What that is is the beginnings of a harassment suit.” Serena sighs, finishes off her wine. “It doesn’t change the fact that she works for me.”

“Details.” Sian waves her hand, waves away Serena’s objections. “You spend far too much time worrying about the shoulds and shouldn’ts. Maybe just talk to her.”

“I don’t know that there’s enough alcohol in the world for that conversation. ‘I know I ran out on you while you were sleeping twenty five years ago, but it was awfully good before that. Want to give it another go?’ She’ll think I’ve lost my mind.” Serena wishes, not for the first time, that she hadn’t run scared, that she’d stayed the night, woken up next to Bernie in the morning, to sleep-crusted eyes and tousled hair.

“I suppose you’ll have to decide if it’s worth the risk,” Sian says, forthright, clinks the rim of her refilled glass against Serena’s. 

Serena sits in silence for a moment, meetings with HR flying through her head, having to pack up her office after less than a fortnight. But then she thinks of that messy blonde hair and lets herself think _maybe_.

“As usual, Sian, you’ve been of no help whatsoever and given me far too much to think about.” Serena downs the rest of her wine, knows Sian plans to stay, plans to find a man, a habit she’s never grown out of.

“My pleasure, darling. Just think how terribly dull your life would be without me in it.” She presses a kiss to Serena’s cheek and hugs her once, tightly, whispers her congratulations, how proud she is of Serena. 

She takes a cab home, fiddles with her necklace in the backseat, her nails lightly scraping against the skin at her collarbone. When Serena’s inside her house, the door firmly shut behind her, she lets herself imagine calling Bernie Wolfe into her office, imagines the look on Bernie’s face as she suggests they come to an ‘arrangement,’ logically laying out all of the benefits. They’re both busy women, both with a less than stellar relationship history if the rumor mill is to be believed. And they’re nothing if not compatible.

It seems...plausible. To not have to worry about dating and flowers and who picks up the check. To just allow herself to have fun, to have sex, to not think about the consequences for once. She’s slept with her share of men and women, and enjoyed it all, taken her pleasure, gotten her fill, but there’s always the nagging reminder of the woman who fucked her so hard that she’s never forgotten it, and the chance to revisit that, well it seems almost too good to pass up.

She thinks, perhaps, there’s the slimmest possibility it might work. And the thought of what might come next makes it incredibly tempting, no matter what the risk.

Laying in bed that night, sleepless and full of heavy thoughts and deep want, she thinks maybe the hospital isn’t the place for it, wonders if she can get Bernie to that bar across the way - Alban’s or something - a more neutral setting.

She keeps thinking about it the next day at the hospital, can think of little else when she has to go down to AAU and sees Bernie in her element. She also notices Bernie staring back, catches her gaze lingering a little too long. Starts to think maybe Bernie’s thinking about it too.

She ends up blurting out the question just before the elevator doors close as she heads back to her office, jamming her hand between the sliding metal. “Drinks tonight? On me?” She can’t help the hopeful lilt to her voice, the light in her eyes, and seeing it reflected in Bernie’s face does nothing to make any of it better.

“I’ll stop up before I leave,” Bernie promises.

They walk over to Albie’s together at the end of the day. It’s the first time in twenty five years Serena’s seen Bernie in anything but scrubs and it’s hard to take her eyes off of her in those skinny black jeans. She wishes she had something more casual than her suit when they walk into the bar, can see various members of staff look her way and then have whispered conversations.

“Gossip mill moves quickly around here,” she notes and Bernie chuckles softly, nods, like she’s had experience with it herself

The gazes on them make Serena nervous, her skin prickling, as if they can all see what’s going on in her head, what she’s been thinking about Bernie. She goes to the bar while Bernie gets them a table, orders a large red wine for herself, a whiskey for Bernie.

She brings the glasses back, feels embarrassed for a moment that she bought whisky without asking first, just the memory of the alcohol on Bernie’s tongue enough to make her guess at the order. What if her tastes have changed, her preferences? Serena’s face flushes. What if more than what she likes to drink has changed in the intervening years and she’s about to make a fool of herself?

She sets down the glasses and Bernie glances up through her fringe, a smile tugging at her lips. “You remembered.” Her eyes are dark and for a moment remind Serena so much of that night it makes her shiver.

“There’s not much about that evening I’ve forgotten,” she says, feeling a little brazen, and there it is, out there, sitting between them like a delicate icicle on the edge of an eave; one wrong move and it shatters.

Bernie freezes a moment, takes a slow sip of her drink and Serena has to force herself not to stare at her mouth. “Something else we have in common, then.” Her voice is a little strained, but her eyes stay fixed on Serena.

Serena clears her throat, toys with the rim of her glass, can see Bernie tracking the movement of her finger. “Are you married?” she asks, casting about for anything, anything to keep Bernie talking, to keep her here, while she grasps for the boldness to ask her the thing she’s brought her here to ask. 

“No,” Bernie says. “Are you?” Serena holds up her ring-free hand and wiggles her fingers. 

“I was, once. But he was...less than satisfactory, in the end.” It’s a kind way to describe Edward, a mistake she made while climbing the corporate ladder, a calculated decision that didn’t pay off. Bernie’s eyebrows are raised, as if the thought of Serena with a man hadn’t occurred to her. “There hasn’t been any other man, or woman, that’s captured my attention for long enough,” Serena adds, and she sees Bernie’s posture ease slightly. 

“And with our work schedules,” Bernie says, a little hesitation in her voice, “Well, it’s hard to find someone who understands the demands of it all.” It’s surreal, almost, to be having this discussion with Bernie Wolfe, with the woman she thinks of at every flash of blonde hair. 

Silence sits between them for a moment, and then Serena musters up her courage. “I thought that,” she says delicately, “there might be a mutually beneficial arrangement we could embark upon.”

-

 _Friends with benefits_. It echoes in Bernie’s head, Serena’s coy voice making the words seem all the more alluring. She pours herself a finger of whiskey and flops onto the sofa, staring unseeing past the clutter on her coffee table.

A part of her knows the idea is mad. She of anyone knows the efficiency of the Holby City rumor mill, knows that this kind of thing has every chance of ending in catastrophe. But it’s hard to focus on that when all she can seem to think of is the way Serena’s eyes sparkled over the rim of her wineglass, summoning all too vivid memories of that night so long ago.

Could she do it? Could she sleep with the woman who left the imprint of her teeth on Bernie’s thigh, and the imprint of her smile on Bernie’s memory, then left without a word, without a note? At least this time she would know what she’s getting into from the start, she reasons. And even she’s not fool enough to try to convince herself she doesn’t want the chance to be with Serena again.

She smiles ruefully at herself, thinking she’s already made up her mind without even knowing it. She reaches for her phone, scrolls to Serena’s contact information, awkwardly given out as they parted ways at Albie’s, and texts just two words: “I’m in.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note there is a rating change

It’s with only mild trepidation that Bernie goes up to Serena's office at lunch, coffees in hand. And a pastry for Serena, too. After all, she tells herself, there is the "friends" part of this whole "friends with benefits" thing. Serena’s assistant lets her go in, she uses her hip to open the door, coffee and pastry balanced precariously in her hands. 

Serena looks up with surprise, and Bernie tries not to take it personally, wonders if she’s somehow overthought the proposal, if perhaps Serena’s changed her mind in the middle of the night and now she’s crossing some sort of line. But Serena gestures at the empty chair in front of her desk and Bernie takes a seat, slides her offerings across the smooth surface.

“What’s all this?” Serena asks, eyebrow raised, and Bernie shrugs.

“The friends part of this whole thing?” Bernie would be lying if she said there wasn’t something appealing about another woman her own age working at the hospital, another woman with intelligence and brains, another woman in charge. 

“Hmm,” Serena hums, takes a sip of her coffee. “This is nice.” Bernie offers a small smile, which freezes in place as Serena continues, “But we’re at work. And as you pointed out last night, the gossip mill moves fast. The friends part can only go so far."

"You may be the CEO but it is acceptable for you to mingle with the underlings. Remind everyone that you are actually human." Bernie holds her coffee in both hands, tries to suck the warmth from the cup, feeling as if any warmth from the room has vanished, making her words sharper than she intends.

Serena looks a little contrite at that, and picks up the pastry, a few flakes dropping onto her pristine desk. "I just want to be careful."

"A croissant is hardly a marriage proposal, Serena. If it were, I'd be engaged to the F1 who wants to get in on my surgery later."

Serena inclines her head in curt acknowledgment and takes a bite of the pan au chocolate, lets out a little groan of pleasure that sends a shiver up Bernie's spine.

"So," she says, setting down the pastry, brushing the flakes from her fingertips. "Some ground rules, then."

Bernie quirks an eyebrow but waits patiently, feels certain Serena's spent all night thinking about this, all week even.

"Number one, this stays outside of the hospital grounds. After this, there will be no more discussions, implications, and certainly no canoodling."

"Canoodling?" Bernie can't stop herself, the word is silly. 

"Number two," Serena continues as if Bernie hasn't spoken, "we'll make plans via text only. We can have each other under assumed names, to prevent any snooping." She pulls her phone out, clicking through to her contact information. "What should I put you under?"

"How about..." Bernie casts about for something, suddenly unable to think of any name she's ever heard in her life. "Dusty Springfield?"

Serena affixes her with a withering gaze. "Jane Smith it is then." She taps in the information as Bernie retrieves her phone, swiping it open and looking up expectantly.

"Just put me in as Sian Kors," Serena says. Bernie feels like that's a strange name to pull out of the ether, is about to ask when Serena opens her mouth again. "The friend who ditched me the night we met. The friend who talked me into this now."

"Remind me to send her a fruit basket," Bernie mutters as she saves the contact in her phone.

Serena is looking at her oddly when she sets her phone aside, but the expression clears quickly and she writes out an address on a small bit of paper. "Meet me here. On Friday, if you're free?"

Bernie takes the slip of paper, their fingertips just brushing. She finds her heart is thudding faster in her chest, all of this suddenly becoming very real. She swallows, tries to keep her voice steady as she replies. "I'm available."

Serena nods, glances away to fiddle with some papers on her desk. "If anything comes up, I would appreciate as much notice as possible. My schedule is a bit of a nightmare these days, as is yours, I'm sure." Before Bernie can reply, Serena looks up, expression serious.

"One final rule. _This_ ," she gestures between them, "is _not_ a relationship. This is an arrangement between two like-minded women. Nothing more." Her voice is flat, cold, and her meaning is clear. The friends part doesn’t go very far at all, then.

Bernie nods slowly. "An arrangement," she echoes. It's what's best for her now in all honesty, her life complicated by emergency surgeries, unpredictable hours, bad history. Just a release of built up energy. Bernie slips the paper into the pocket of her scrubs with a reminder to herself to take it out before she changes for home.

"I'll be seeing you," she says, standing, taking her coffee cup with her, almost empty, light in her hands. Serena doesn't look up from her paper, just a small nod of the head to indicate she's heard. _Just an arrangement,_ Bernie repeats to herself.

She finds it's something she has to remind herself of repeatedly as Friday approaches, catches herself automatically thinking of the things she might normally do to prepare for a date - pick up some flowers, take extra care with her appearance, tamp down the urge to impress - before remembering that's not what this is.

-

She takes a cab to the hotel, doesn't want to deal with parking or valets, none of that. This should be easy and painless, just sex. Sex with someone she's slept with before, no less.

It’s far nicer than the one before, than the meager allowance of a medical student could provide. There’s a key waiting for her at the front desk. She fidgets with it as she rides up in the mirror-lined elevator. Tries not to fret too much about her appearance, attempts to neaten her perpetually mussed hair. She did make an effort a bit today, put on some makeup, wore a nice shirt, though from Serena’s predatory glance earlier that day, she thinks she may not spend much time with it on.

The doors open and she makes her way down the hallway, footsteps muffled by the thick, dark carpeting. She stops outside of 612, takes a deep breath, attempts to calm her racing heart, wonders if she should knock, or text, or something. Let Serena know that she’s here, rather than just walking in.

She eventually summons the courage to knock, a firm rap on the door, and almost before she’s pulled her hand away, it swings open, and on the other side is Serena, looking just as flustered as Bernie feels. They stare at each other for a moment, neither knowing what to say. Eventually Serena steps aside, holding out a hand into the room.

“Come in, please.”

It feels stilted, oddly formal, but Bernie passes by Serena, can feel her shirt ruffle next to her arm as she moves past. There are two wine glasses on a small table, a bottle uncorked and breathing

“I know you’re a whisky person,” Serena says from behind Bernie, a little breathlessly.

“I’ve been known to drink wine a time or two,” Bernie says.

Somehow Serena’s nerves settle her own, knowing that they’re in this together, neither of them quite knowing what to do despite their mutual desire to be here. She pours the wine, Serena still fluttering behind her, not quite sitting, not quite standing, not ready to commit to any position. At the first sip of wine, Bernie finds some nerve within herself, moves close to Serena, makes sure their fingers touch as she hands over the half-full glass. She’s close enough that her breath ghosts against Serena’s cheek, she lets her breasts brush against Serena ever so slightly, and doesn’t move away.

Her eyes drop to Serena’s mouth, move back up to her eyes just in time to see them lingering on her own lips. She holds her breath as Serena leans closer, only the smallest gap between them. 

Serena is the one who bridges the final distance, pressing her lips to Bernie’s, setting her glass down with a _thunk_ , some of the liquid spilling out onto the side table. Bernie feels Serena’s hands come up to her shoulders, finds her fingers moving against Serena’s silky blouse.

Her hands settle in the dip of Serena’s waist as she deepens the kiss, the taste of wine rich on her tongue as it meets Serena’s. For a moment it’s as if she’s gone back in time; younger, more uncertain, astonished that this beautiful woman could possibly be interested in her.

And then age and experience take over, and Bernie begins to slide the shirt from Serena's arms, to uncover all that tantalizing skin. The memories Bernie holds dear, the memories of her twenty-five year-old self pressed against a similarly aged Serena, are eclipsed in this moment, in the unveiling of Serena in the now, in the present.

“I’ve changed a bit,” she says ruefully, but makes no effort to cover herself, just stands in slight defiance as Bernie drinks her in. 

“Me too,” Bernie answers, crosses her arms and pulls her shirt off in one smooth movement. 

-

Serena’s imaginings of this moment pale in comparison to the reality of Bernie Wolfe in front of her. 

Her eyes travel over the expanse of porcelain skin, just as lovely as it always is in her memories, except now the smoothness is broken up by scars and marks. Some clearly old, faint and silvery in the dim light, others newer, still flushed pink and healing. There’s a jagged line down the center of Bernie’s chest, from the top of her sternum down to her abdomen and Serena’s heart clenches at the sight; she knows what it means, can only imagine what Bernie has been through, wants to press her lips to that scar, to all of them, to soothe them and their memories away. She can see the tension in Bernie’s frame, the uncertainty in her hooded eyes at Serena’s inspection.

“Beautiful,” Serena breathes, means it in every way, and steps closer.

Bernie’s wearing a black bra, somehow it makes her look delicate and strong all at once, and Serena reaches for the clasp of it, a front-fastener, her fingers easily opening it. Bernie’s skin is warm, flushed, and Serena’s hands move against her smooth stomach, moles and freckles in sharp relief against skin rarely bared to the sun. She pulls Bernie close, kisses her again, slides her tongue right past her teeth, can’t get enough of the taste.

Bernie wedges her thigh between Serena’s legs, and Serena grinds against it, her trousers still on, her knickers damp, and she feels wanton, erotic. Bernie’s hands work at the back of Serena’s bra, fumbling with the hooks, and Serena reaches behind to help, her fingers tangling with Bernie’s, and she smiles against Bernie’s mouth.

With their bare chests pressed against each other, Serena feels her brain short-circuit, the delicious feeling of Bernie next to her, close, hot, _real_. She holds Bernie’s hands in her own, an awkward sort of gymnastics as she keeps their joined hands together, bringing them next to her side, placing Bernie’s hands back on her hips. 

They move towards the bed, the large duvet fluffing around them as Serena falls back against the bed, Bernie on top, their lips still moving, still kissing. She arches into Bernie’s touch, the careful and gentle passes of Bernie’s hands on her skin. Bernie reaches for the button on Serena’s trousers and easily slips it through its hole, begins to move the fabric from Serena’s hips. 

She has thought about the mysterious blonde woman so often, has re-lived that night in her memories time and time again. Serena remembers the frenetic removal of clothing, the way Bernie’s fingers left trails of desire as she slid that horribly ugly skirt past her thighs, and it’s all the same, it’s all happening again as Bernie removes her trousers and knickers. Bernie looks down into Serena’s eyes, pulls away from the kiss long enough that they can stare at each other for a few breathless moments. 

“May I?” she asks, voice low, concerned, like she’s worried about overstepping, like the purpose of the whole arrangement isn’t to get to this point. Her hand is prone at the apex of Serena’s thighs, close enough that Serena fancies she can feel the slight heat of Bernie’s fingers radiating towards her, knows she’s canting her hips up just a bit, wants Bernie inside of her quickly, soon, _now._

Serena bites her lip, nods, can’t put into words how badly she wants this, how long it’s been since she’s had _really good_ sex, and then Bernie slides a finger into Serena, just one to start, like she’s on an exploratory mission. She adds a second quickly and Serena ruts into it, wants to increase the contact, just wants to feel full. Bernie adds a third and the feeling of being stretched, filled, takes over. 

Her hands clutch at Bernie’s back, her fingers indenting into her skin, and she’s grateful for the short nails the medical profession has trained her to have. Bernie’s thumb begins to toy with Serena’s clit while her fingers move in a steady rhythm, and all that want, that excitement, that pleasure, pools in the pit of Serena’s stomach. 

She doesn’t worry about coming too soon, too fast, just worries that Bernie will take her hand away too soon. She kisses Bernie, long and full, doesn’t let herself think about how well they fit together, how easily, how it feels a little bit like coming home. Bernie’s rhythm falters as Serena slips her tongue past her lips, licks against the roof of Bernie’s mouth, so clearly mirroring a movement she might perform later. And then Bernie quirks her fingers, takes Serena over the edge she’s been teetering on, and swallows Serena’s groan in her kiss. 

She only spends a few moments in boneless satiation before rolling their bodies over, straddling Bernie, her thighs bracketing her body, clenching slightly around Bernie’s hips, can see the darkening of Bernie’s eyes at the sensation. Serena bends over, places a hand on either side of Bernie’s head and kisses her, deeply, fully, wants to erase any other thoughts from Bernie’s mind, just wants Bernie thinking of her and this and nothing else. 

Bernie’s hands come to rest in the dip of Serena’s waist, against her sensitive, ticklish skin, but Serena’s never found anything less funny. She moves from Bernie’s mouth, kisses her jaw, her neck, licks at her collarbone, at the little beads of sweat that have formed from exertion, from pleasure. Bernie shudders a little beneath her, her breathing unsteady, and Serena looks up from where she’s hovering over the swell of Bernie’s breast.

“Is this all right?”

“ _Yes_.” Bernie’s eyes are wide, hands fluttering against Serena’s forearms. “God, yes. I just…” She chuckles, lets out a gust of breath that ruffles Serena’s hair against her forehead. “I’ve been thinking about this for a very long time.” 

Bernie smiles then, her dark gaze soft and the intensity of it rocks Serena to her core, makes everything feel that much more delicate, important. Serena steadies herself, focuses on what this is and returns Bernie’s smile, injects a touch of a leer into it.

“Don’t worry,” she purrs, “I’ll be gentle.”

Serena continues on her journey along Bernie’s torso, nipping at her breasts, catching a nipple between her teeth as she works with the fastener of Bernie’s jeans. She can feel Bernie’s pulse quicken, her skin warm, and she lifts her hips to let Serena pull the denim off her legs, throw the jeans aside, somewhere behind her. 

Serena settles between Bernie’s legs, looks up at Bernie’s face, feels almost gleeful, excited, that she gets to do this after all the years that have passed between them. She kisses at Bernie’s thighs, little pecks, soft and sweet, teasing as she moves closer to her pulsing center, wetness glistening between her legs. She licks at it, laps at her, and then tongues into Bernie, strong and sure and feels rather than hears the groan that escapes from Bernie’s mouth.

She’s done this before, many times, but it’s better this time, somehow. The taste is sharp and bitter, like dark chocolate and she can’t get enough, doesn’t stop her focused movements, feeling Bernie shudder above her. It doesn’t take long for her to come, and Serena swallows her fill, Bernie coating the inside of her mouth, her lips. She moves up Bernie’s body once more, kisses her again, the taste of Bernie’s mouth a beautiful chaser to the taste between her thighs, and she’s afraid she might grow to like this too much.

Bernie’s hands settle at her hips, fingertips pressing into her flesh, pulling her even closer as they kiss, before lightly tracing them over the curves of Serena’s body, trailing goosebumps in their wake. Her fingers find their way to Serena’s nipples, teasing them as she cups the weight of her breasts in her hands, tugging and pinching until Serena is whimpering into her mouth.

She encourages Serena to sit up, eyes following the path of her hands as they travel the planes and curves of Serena’s torso.

“Still so gorgeous,” Bernie says, a crooked grin on her face, fingers lightly circling Serena’s navel as her hand drifts lower.

“I’m glad-” Serena gasps as Bernie’s fingers fill her, splays her hands across Bernie’s ribs to steady herself. “Glad you think so.” Her hips roll eagerly into Bernie’s touch, her fingers curled to the exact spot that has Serena seeing stars.

“I’ve thought about you like this.” Bernie’s voice is low and compelling, wrapping around Serena, coiling inside her as she tries to maintain a rhythm. “Ever since that night. Thought about somehow finding you, maybe running into you on the street. I never thought it would actually happen, much less at work,” she says with a chuckle and a wry grin. 

Serena can’t help but smile back, opens her mouth to reply but her breath is stolen by another finger easing into her, the stretch delicious, and all she can do is moan, her head lolling back. 

“Have you thought about me, too?” It takes a moment for Serena to focus on the words, to take in their meaning. Ridiculously she feels herself flush, feeling somehow more exposed by this conversation than the fact that she’s currently astride Bernie’s hips, practically riding her hand.

“Yes,” she replies on a sigh. “God, Bernie, I think about you so often.”

Bernie hums, her hand moving a little faster, firmer, meeting the desperate motion of Serena’s hips. “Do you touch yourself when you think about me?” The words are impossibly lower, gruff in a way that tells Serena this is just as potent for Bernie as it is for her. She forces herself to open her eyes, meeting Bernie’s dark gaze directly.

“Yes,” she says, watches Bernie’s eyes flutter. “All the time.” 

Bernie lets out a little whimper at that, her eyes slipping shut, and Serena grins, feels a flush of power surge through her. She leans forward, watches Bernie intently, dragging her nails down Bernie’s still flat abdomen, feels the muscles twitch beneath her touch.

“And what about you? Do you think about me when you get off?” 

She manages to slip a hand between their bodies, finds Bernie drenched, almost frictionless against the press of her fingers. Bernie just nods frantically, her free hand clenching on Serena’s hip. It’s a jostle for position, hands bumping, the angle awkward, but they find a rhythm together, gasps and moans mingling in the hotel room as they each spiral higher. Bernie loses control first and it’s the sight of her, spine arched, mouth open in a wordless groan, the stutter of her hips, that sends Serena over the edge just after, crying out sharply as she pulses around Bernie’s fingers.

Serena collapses forward, their bodies a tangle of sweat-slicked skin, fingers damp against warm flesh. Satisfaction curls through her limbs, makes her muscles languid as she lifts her head just enough to find Bernie’s mouth, tasting the salt, the lingering taste of Bernie still on her lips.

Slowly she ends the kiss, pulling away, enjoying the slide of skin on skin as she eases off Bernie, a pleasant ache between her thighs, one she knows will stay with her for the next few hours, the next day. She brushes her hair off her forehead, where it’s been plastered from sweat and exertion. “That was…” she casts about for the right word. “Beneficial.”

Bernie chuckles softly, her breasts jostling at the movement. Serena yawns, turns on her side, her head resting against her palm. Bernie looks at her, eyes dark and mysterious. 

“Another rule?” she asks, and Serena clenches her mouth, covering another yawn. “We don’t sleep together. Fall asleep,” she clarifies because Serena knows her face must show confusion. 

“Is that some sort of hint?” Serena asks, sitting up, the sheet bunching by her waist. Bernie sits up, too, rubbing at her eyes, carding through the tangled blonde mop of her hair. 

“I just mean we don’t want to confuse things. I should - I should be getting home.” She stands, leaving Serena behind, doesn’t spare a look over her shoulder as she pulls her shirt back on, slides her trousers up her long legs. Serena feels oddly bereft, but reminds herself that it’s not supposed to be anything but this, that there was never going to be any sort of extended cuddling, any lazy mornings where they blink softly in the early light, warm from sleep and each other. 

“See you at work?” Serena offers as Bernie turns to face her once more, looking presentable and ready to face the real world. Bernie nods, almost haltingly, looks at Serena a long moment before turning back towards the door, like she wants to do something else, say something else. 

“Thanks,” she says quietly as she turns the handle, then lets the door shut behind her. Serena stays in bed, hands in her lap, and wonders why this wasn’t quite what she imagined.


	4. Chapter 4

It becomes a weekly event, different hotels, but the outcome is the same. In the middle of the week, Bernie usually gets a text message from "Sian Kors" with the name of a hotel and a date and a time. 

She gets used to setting aside Friday nights, sometimes Saturdays too. She doesn't think she's ever been this insatiable for a lover before, sometimes finds herself counting the minutes to the next time she'll get to press her hands against Serena's soft skin.

Seeing Serena at work isn't as hard as Bernie thought it might be, knowing what she looks like underneath those suits, knowing the look on her face when she comes, her head thrown back in wild abandon. Still, she finds her thoughts drifting during consultant meetings, with Serena at the head of the table, glasses perched on her nose, her fingernails dark and sharp as she points at things on pages in front of her, as she lectures them on proper ward procedures.

Although often stern, Serena is kind to her staff, too, her face breaking out in easy smiles when they've done well, a wink given when she's got an extra bit of cheek about her. Bernie finds it harder to focus in these moments, when she sees not just the executive but the woman too.

She stores up these thoughts, holds them close, and unleashes them when she steps through the door of their shared hotel room. She backs Serena up against the wall, she eats Serena out, splayed on the bed like a da Vinci drawing, she holds her close under the steady stream of hot water from the shower and pushes her fingers inside her. She can never get her fill of Serena, never get her fill of it all.

But Bernie knows the rules, knows well enough how to keep her personal feelings out of the workplace. It's surprising as anything when Serena is the one to come to her office at lunch one day, with sandwiches and coffee. "I've been trying to stop by all the wards, get some one-on-one time with each consultant," Serena says by way of explanation, though there's a bit of mirth in her eyes at the thought of how much one-on-one time they really get.

Bernie wonders, briefly, what it would be like to have sex with Serena here, at work, with her in the swivel chair, hands clamped on the armrests, Bernie on her knees in front of her. But she takes her sandwich and calmly, politely, professionally, talks about what the day-to-day is like on AAU.

Without really trying, these lunches become habitual. Whether it's that they just enjoy each other's company and naturally gravitate towards one another, or if Serena is really that concerned about AAU that she feels regular lunch meetings with the lead consultant are necessary, Bernie doesn't know. But they have lunch often enough that Bernie learns what sandwiches she likes best, how she takes her coffee. She learns this woman in a completely new way, learns they are different people outside of the hotel room.

They break the first rule faster than Bernie would’ve thought - and Serena’s the one to make the mistake, but Bernie doesn’t call her on it. They’re finishing their sandwiches one day, Serena wiping the crumbs from the desk into her cupped palm, and she says, “Are you free this weekend?”

Bernie wonders at first if it’s an invitation to something else, a conference or a work meeting, but when she looks at Serena’s eyes, sees the darkened pupils, she thinks it’s about their arrangement. “I am,” she says, “Why?”

Serena looks a little bemused, an eyebrow raised, and now Bernie knows for certain what they’re talking about. “I was planning on booking a room. Is that all right?”

“Yes, yes of course,” she says, crumpling her sandwich wrapper into a ball, throwing it towards the bin and missing wildly.

“Seemed silly to send a text when we’re sitting right here and there’s no one else around,” Serena says with a smile, tapping the screen of her phone, sitting face up on the desk, “but I suppose I can type one up, if you prefer?” Her wry smile is enough to put Bernie back at ease.

“You’re right,” Bernie says, pushing up out of her chair. “I’ll see you this weekend, then.” She crosses toward the door, stopping to pick up the wrapper from the floor; makes sure to bend over a little more slowly than normal, angled toward the desk, remembering Serena’s whispered appreciation of her arse in her scrubs. She thinks she hears a strangled gulp behind her as she straightens and walks out of the office, a smirk firmly on her lips.

-

Serena feels a sense of glee as she makes her way down to AAU, holding a thick envelope, Bernie’s name printed in fine cursive across the front. She knocks on the door jamb, Bernie’s head popping up from her computer with such a quickness that Serena knows she’s got something boring in front of her, looking for any excuse to stop working on it. 

“Your invitation to the annual fundraising gala,” she says, holding the envelope out, a smile on her face. “You’ll have to run a brush through that hair of yours,” she says in a low voice, like it wasn’t just two days ago that she’d tangled her fingers in that very hair and told Bernie how much she liked it messy. Bernie flushes slightly as she takes the invitation between her fingers, like it’s some sort of dangerous chemical. 

She slides her finger under the flap, lifts it up and pulls out the invitation, a half sheet of substantial paper, ivory, the font inside the same delicate cursive from the envelope. “It says formal dress, nothing about formal hair.” Her smile makes Serena’s heart flutter a bit, but she reminds herself, not for the first time, that they are simply friends, nothing more. 

There’s a week between the day she leaves the invitation with Bernie and the actual event. She texts Bernie, just once, to say she’s booked a room for the night in the very same hotel in which the gala will be hosted. Bernie texts back a simple “ok” and leaves it at that. They see each other the way they always do, in the morning at Pulses, sometimes on the bench outside at lunch, Bernie wrapped in her Holby hoodie, Serena’s heels tapping against the sidewalk. She thinks they’re managing this friends bit moderately well. 

When she dresses for the night, she feels a certain amount of pressure, the idea that this is her first gala event when she’s representing the hospital, when she’s the face of an organization. It’s terrifying in a way that she hadn’t expected, and she wishes she had someone to talk to about it. She thinks about texting Bernie, about maybe even asking if they can arrive together, thinks it might not be the worst thing to have someone in her corner from the start.

Instead, she buys herself new lingerie, letting the skimpy fabric bolster her confidence, fill her with power, sensuality, feeling as unstoppable in this as she does in her high heels and tailored blazers. The matching bra and pants are more lace than anything else, feel delicious against her skin. She appraises herself in the mirror, runs her hand down her abdomen, hands landing on her hips. She’s confident in how she looks, even more so after weeks with Bernie Wolfe lavishing her with affectionate touches, with whispers against her skin about how beautiful she is. 

She wonders what Bernie will think of the way she looks, of the hint of the rosy skin of her nipples visible through the lace, of the way her thighs look, lined with the thin ribbon of suspenders, hooked onto the top of her silk stockings. She twists this way and that in the mirror, the black lace stark against her pale skin, and she smiles, satisfied. 

Her gown is simple, and the knowledge of what lies beneath it furthers her enjoyment all the more. Stepping into the red crepe dress, Serena pulls it over her body, covering up all the lace she can’t wait for Bernie to uncover. She slides the zipper up the side, moves her hands down the fabric, smoothing imaginary wrinkles, her nails, freshly manicured and black, standing out against the red. Her lipstick matches her gown, bright, bold, and she slides the tube into her clutch, along with the mascara and blush, already applied to her eyes and cheeks. 

She gets driven to the gala, a luxury afforded by her position, and when she steps out in front of the hotel, the concierge is there to lead her inside, his hand gentle against hers, and he smiles as he opens the door for her. “Good luck, Ms. Campbell,” he says and Serena allows herself to blush, smiles in return. 

She knows the routine of these things, has done her research on the donors, on the members of the board, she knows what’s required of her. Her smile pasted on, she moves through the doors of the ballroom, greets people as she goes, Guy Self and Jac Naylor offering similarly fixed grins in her direction as she nods at them. Serena makes her way to the bar, stopping short when she sees Bernie leaning against the counter. 

She’s not wearing a dress, but she’s certainly run a brush through her hair. Hair that is currently twisted up, exposing her neck, which gives way to nothing but a long expanse of back, Bernie’s shirt scooping low to the base of her spine and giving Serena quite the view. Her legs have never seemed longer, encased in fitted black trousers, her feet in low heels, adding extra height to her lithe frame.

Serena feels a little stymied, doesn’t quite know what the protocol is. If she was dating Bernie, she’d slide her hand along that bare back, that warm, smooth skin and whisper something filthy in her ear, just to watch her start in surprise. But they are just friends, just coworkers, and Serena will have to wait until the end of the gala to say all the things that have come into her mind at the sight of Bernie lounging at the bar.

In the end, she avoids ordering a glass of wine, taking a flute of champagne from a passing tray instead. She sips her way around the room, chatting with the appropriate people, talking about all the advancements she hopes to put in place, all the things that exist in her five year plan for Holby City Hospital. She watches checks get written, gets verbal agreements from more people than she can count, and all in all, feels rather successful about the whole thing.

She only talks to Bernie when she has to pull the other woman in to speak about some of the new procedures implemented on AAU, how Bernie has revolutionized the way the hospital deals with incoming traumas. “I wouldn’t mind a whole trauma bay,” Bernie says, “though I’m well aware of the limitations of the cash-strapped NHS.” Serena looks at Bernie, eyes wide, because this is something she’s never thought of, something Bernie’s never told her before. 

“Well, sounds like you’ve got big plans. You get the support of the board on that trauma bay idea and you can count me in as a donor.” The blustering Mr. Donovan shakes Bernie’s hand, shakes Serena’s too, and moves on his way, leaving Bernie and Serena alone with nothing to do but look at each other. 

“You look nice,” Serena says, overlapping Bernie’s compliment on her dress. She brushes an invisible speck off the fabric and looks down at her empty glass. “Thank you,” she says after a beat. “I need a refill.”

“Me too. If that’s - if that’s all right,” Bernie adds and Serena nods. They walk together to the bar and Serena has to stop her hand from reaching out to ghost along Bernie’s bare back. Serena trades her champagne flute for a glass of red and sips at it quietly. They never really made rules for this, for what to do when they both attended hospital functions. It strikes Serena as odd, that she didn’t think of this in all her careful preparation and thought, but she can hardly go about whispering rules and instructions at Bernie now, and her phone is tucked away in her clutch, too obtrusive if she were to take it out. 

“How’s the evening going for you?” Bernie asks, taking a glass of whisky from the bartender, a few ice cubes clinking against the side as she brings it up for a taste.

“Oh...well enough.” Serena feels wrong-footed, in this liminal space where they aren’t quite at work but aren’t quite in a hotel room either. She wishes, for the first time, that Bernie was in scrubs, or that her pager would go off, anything that would put an end to this stilted conversation she doesn’t know how to have. 

Bernie must take pity on Serena, must sense the gap they both desperately want to close, and she throws their conversation a lifeline. “What’s the biggest donation you’ve ever tricked out of someone?” 

Serena laughs at that, can’t stop the snort that escapes from her. “Oh, I never trick anyone. But I did get a tidy sum from Mr. Jessup over there, on the idea that our equipment should at least match that of St. James." That is the trick, somehow, and from there, the conversation flows more easily, feels like another one of their lunches, another time that they're drinking coffee together, just two friends, two co-workers.

It's toward the bottom of her second glass of wine that Serena asks, "So why didn't you come to me about your idea for a trauma bay?"

Bernie doesn't look at Serena's eyes for a moment, staring down at her glass, nearly empty, small ice cubes almost entirely melted. "I didn't want to take advantage of anything," she says quietly, clears her throat. "I didn't have a thorough proposal in mind yet."

Something twists in Serena's gut at the idea that Bernie hesitated because of their arrangement. That it wasn't outweighed by their working relationship, their friendship. She finds herself biting her tongue, holding back lavish promises of improved facilities, knows that she can't just give this to Bernie, that Bernie would never want that even if she could. "It's a good idea, though. Maybe we could work through the proposal together?"

Bernie smiles, then, real and true, and nods. "I'd like that," she says.

Serena sets her wine glass down with a noise louder than she'd intended. "I don't think my presence here is adding much to the proceedings," she says. "I think I'll go upstairs." Her meaning is clear, and though the last thing she wants to do is raise any further parallels between the prospective trauma bay and their arrangement, she also would very much like to take that shirt off Bernie, to feel that warm skin under her fingertips.

She feels a certain satisfaction at Bernie's dark eyes, the way they flick over her as she takes a slow sip of her remaining whiskey. "There's someone I should talk to, but then I think I'll retire myself."

Serena lets her hand drop from the stem of her wine glass and just barely graze the back of Bernie's hand, her touch slow, deliberate, and then she says, "I'll text you." She walks away, an extra saunter in her step, because she knows Bernie is watching, can feel the heat of her gaze burning into her back.

She stops by the front desk on her way to the lift, asks for a bottle of wine to be sent up to the room. Finds herself fidgeting the entire way there, her body thrumming in anticipation, as if this were the first time they'd done this.

The elevator dings and she gets out on her floor, her heels sinking into the plush carpet as she walks towards her room, looking down at the keycard, rubbing her thumb over the number written in pen. She texts it to Bernie - "415" - almost adds an x at the end but stops herself. That's not what this is.

The wine arrives just after she does and she pours herself a generous glass, sets out a second for Bernie on the small coffee table. She looks at herself in the wide bathroom mirror, debates whether or not to let Bernie undress her, or to lie in wait for her on the bed, bared except for her undergarments. She decides on the latter, pulling the zipper down, peeling the dress off her body, hanging it in the closet by the door. She puts on another coat of lipstick, imagines the bold red imprint of her mouth on Bernie's body, an impermanent marker of where she's been.

The decision has taken her longer than she thought; either that or Bernie's conversation was brief, because she's just walking back across the room when there's a soft knock at the door. She considers grabbing the fluffy white robe from the closet for a moment, changes her mind with a grin and walks to the door. There's a whisper of silk against silk, her stockings rubbing slightly as she walks, her feet still in the pointed heels from the gala, and she opens the door, her desire to see Bernie's expression giving her a certain boldness.

And, oh, it is worth it, to see the usually calm and collected Bernie Wolfe flummoxed in the doorway, her mouth open slightly as she drinks in the sight of Serena. She stands perfectly still for a long moment, eyes trying to drink in everything at once, and then, with rapidfire reflexes that must have served her well in her army days, Bernie moves forward, her arms going around Serena, holding her close, propelling them both into the room, the door closing behind them.

Her mouth is hot and insistent on Serena's, teeth clashing, and Serena can't restrain the moan of pleasure when she finally runs her hands down the expanse of Bernie's bare back, settling beneath the rise of her scapulae and pulling her closer.

"It's good," Bernie says between kisses, "I didn't know what you had on under that dress." One hand is on the lacy cup, palming her through the flimsy material, and Serena can feel a spasm of pleasure rush through her, even as Bernie slides her thigh in between Serena's legs, putting pressure just _there_ and making Serena moan.

"At least I was playing fair." Her eyes flutter shut at the first nip of Bernie's teeth along the tendon of her neck. "Do you know how hard it was for me not to touch you in this?" She drags her nails down Bernie's back, just hard enough to elicit a groan from her throat.

She can feel Bernie's smirk against her cheek, feels herself backed towards the bed, wine forgotten, never even thought of, as Bernie pushes her down, pins her hands to the mattress, her fingers encircling each of Serena's wrists as she kisses her until she's breathless.

Bernie shifts her weight onto her hip, brings Serena's wrists together to hold them in one hand, freeing the other to slowly trail down her body. Her eyes follow the path of her hand along the edge of the black lace, between her breasts, over the swell of her abdomen, goosebumps following in the wake of her touch, leaving Serena squirming beneath her, testing the strength of Bernie's grip on her wrists.

It's strong, as strong as she should have expected, and she sags into the bed slightly, content to see what Bernie will do, what she has in mind. Bernie's fingers cup her through the lace of her pants, a quick touch, before her hand leaves the damp fabric and moves to slide under the silken strap of her garter. Serena bucks involuntarily, Bernie's short nails arousing and infuriating all at once as they trace aimless patterns on her thigh. She looks up at Bernie's face, those dark eyes trained on her, watching for every reaction, and Serena feels the heat within her grow, uncoiling in her stomach, pooling at her groin.

She knows Bernie is fully aware of the effect she has on her, can see the smug smile tugging at her lips as she bends her head, nuzzles against the swell of Serena's breast, teeth catching the edge of the sheer lace and pulling it away, releasing to let it snap back into place. 

"Is this all for me?" Her breath is wet and warm across Serena's skin, her tongue darting out to tease a nipple pushing prominently against the lace.

"Uhm," Serena says, as eloquently as she can manage, her eyes rolling back in her head, her whole body taut, ready for Bernie, salivating for her. She hears Bernie's soft chuckle, _feels_ the exhalation of breath hit her sensitive skin. Bernie pauses in her movements and Serena knows she's waiting for an answer, a real one. She twists slightly in Bernie's firm grip, pushing her chest upwards as she does. "Yes," she says finally, the word coming out breathy and high, because all she wants is Bernie's touch, all she wants is Bernie's hands and mouth against her, and she never wants it to stop.

Bernie's only response is a smile bordering on a leer and she dips her head again, teasing Serena with tongue and teeth through the thin barrier of lace, her fingers lightly stroking the damp gusset of fabric between Serena's thighs. She doesn't even pause for either of them to undress, just tugs aside the lace and Serena cries out as long, elegant fingers fill her, Bernie's teeth tugging at her nipple just on the right side of pain.

She squirms against Bernie's grip, her wrists finally freed as Bernie looses her to bring her hand down to Serena's other breast, pebbling the nipple between her fingers, pinching, mirroring the erotic jolt of pleasure brought about by her mouth. The sensations are overwhelming; the slightly rough feeling of the fabric of Bernie's top rubbing against her skin as she begins a rhythm with her hand, pumping into Serena, a steady, constant beat, her thumb toying at Serena's clit erratically, a counterpoint to the pressure of Bernie's fingers inside her.

Serena tangles her fingers in Bernie's hair, gripping tight the silken strands, grounding herself as the pleasure builds. Stars burst behind her eyes and she muffles her cries against Bernie's scalp as she clenches around her fingers.

Bernie doesn't stop, continues to thrust, tease, an exquisite torture. When the second orgasm rips through Serena, leaving her gasping and panting, her hand limp in Bernie's hair, Bernie pulls her hand away, pulls her body away. She licks her fingers slowly, sensuously, and it's too much for Serena, watching through half-lidded eyes, and she turns her head away. 

"Perhaps it goes without saying that I like you in this," Bernie says, when she's finished cleaning her fingers, swallowed any residue of Serena left on her hands.

Serena can't help the laugh that bubbles up from her chest, shakes her body, muscles still loose and trembling. There's a fondness in Bernie's eyes as she leans over her, something more than lust, more than friendship and it makes the breath hitch in Serena's chest. She pushes up onto her elbows, catches Bernie in a slow, thorough kiss, chasing the taste of herself on Bernie's tongue.

Bernie makes a small noise in the back of her throat and it urges Serena on. She tugs at Bernie's shirt, her hands sliding under the draped material, touching all that pale skin, her fingers hungry for more.

They move backwards on the bed, turning so they're both on their sides, their lips never quite leaving the other's, and Serena continues her blind exploration of Bernie's body, her hands finding the scars, the markings, the byproducts of Bernie’s life she'd unearthed before, learning the territory like she's learning Braille, committing it all to memory.

She tugs the top free from Bernie's trousers, separating their lips only long enough to pull the soft material up over her head, static lifting the strands of her hair into a golden halo. Serena's sure fingers find their way to Bernie's breasts, tugging and rolling the sensitive peaks until Bernie is panting against her mouth.

Mirroring Bernie's position from earlier, her lips are hot against Bernie's breast, her tongue laving at her nipple, and Bernie's hand cups the back of her head, her presence strong, reassuring, constant. Bernie is all warm skin, like she's been sitting in the sun, and Serena just wants to be pressed against her, close as she can be. Her fingers fumble with the hook of Bernie's trousers, lower the zipper and pull open the waistband. Bernie's hands join hers, a tangle of fingers working to push the soft, slick wool down her legs until it slithers to the floor with a soft _whump_.

There's a headiness, a sense of urgency, that always comes to Serena during their encounters, like she might miss something, like she can't get enough, like it'll be taken from her, and she tries to quiet her frantic hands. She slides a finger into Bernie slowly, carefully, just one at first, enjoying the look on Bernie's face, the unconscious urging for more.

Settling herself between Bernie's thighs, she tugs one of those glorious legs up over her hip as she adds another finger, finds a rhythm. Her whole body rolls with the motion, slow and steady, her eyes drinking in the way Bernie's head tilts back against the mattress, the arch of her neck, the strain of her tendons.

 _She is beautiful_ Serena thinks, remembers thinking the same when they went to a hotel the night they met. She is ethereal, gorgeous, and in this moment, she is at Serena's mercy.

It's a heady feeling, makes her movements sharper, the press of her fingers, the snap of her hips behind them. Bernie's nails bite into her shoulder, her heel pressed hard against Serena’s arse. Every inch of her body, every delicious sound that falls from her lips begs for more and Serena is determined to give her what she needs, to see this glorious woman fall apart beneath her.

She doesn't have much longer to wait, Bernie already keyed up and on the edge. Serena's name spills from her lips as she comes, a ragged gasp pulled from her throat, and her head falls against the pillow, her body slack, a sated smile on her lips.

Exhaustion washes over her. With no small amount of effort, Serena tugs the rumpled duvet free from underneath her, enough to slide under it, enough for Bernie to take the hint and do the same on her side. Their bodies press together under the blanket, a warm cocoon created between them. Serena nuzzles against Bernie's chin, lets her eyes flutter closed, with a reminder to herself to only doze for a few moments.

-

Bernie's eyes slowly open, bleary and disoriented in the darkened room. There's a weight across her her waist, her thigh, a warmth at her side. She blinks until her vision clears and looks down, finds Serena curled close, an arm flung across her, their legs intertwined.

They've broken a rule. Another one. Bernie scrapes her teeth against her lip, wonders how easily she can extract herself from this, wonders if Serena will remember. From the corner of her eye she sees the wine, undrunk, sitting on the small table, can't even blame this misstep on alcohol. She looks again at Serena's face, so calm in sleep, so peaceful, her mouth slightly open, her lips still a faint red, her lashes dark against her pale cheeks.

Her first instinct is to stay, to pull Serena that much closer and close her eyes, to be there when she wakes. She imagines what Serena must be like in the morning; soft and warm, all bashful smiles and tender touches. The thought is endlessly appealing and utterly terrifying. Bernie feels like she's standing on the precipice of something, toes over the edge, and she knows she has to pull herself back before it's too late.

Heart pounding, she carefully extricates herself from Serena's sleepy embrace, slides free from the rumpled bedding and freezes as Serena murmurs something unintelligible, only relaxing when she burrows furthers into the pillow, breath evening out once again. She casts about for her clothes, finds her shirt hanging from a lampshade, thrown aside in Serena's hurry to get Bernie undressed. Her trousers lay in a pile by the bed, and she pulls them on as quietly as she can, her legs sore, her muscles tired. She finds a notepad on the desk by the door, a pen sitting atop it, uncapped. 

"Hope you slept well. See you at work. x Bernie"

She wants it to be enough, hopes it's not too much. She folds the note, creases it down the middle, and places it on the pillow, right in the indent left behind by her head.


	5. Chapter 5

The idea of a trauma bay wasn’t just idle talk, it seems. Serena comes to work on Monday armed with a file folder of notes and research. “Just a little something I pulled together over the weekend,” she says, dropping the papers into Bernie’s desk. She lifts a corner of the folder, thumbs the pages, impressed at the amount that’s there. If Serena has any thoughts about being left alone in a hotel room, about waking up to a cold bed, there’s nothing in her manner to suggest it.

“If you could read that over, make some notes, we can discuss where to go next. By the end of the week?” Serena is all business, confident and direct, and Bernie finds it sends a thrill down her spine, having that directed at her, can’t help but think about this stern, efficient Serena in other circumstances.

Bernie clears her throat, banishing the distracting thoughts. “Of course. I’ll read them over right away.”

Serena nods, a quick jerk of her chin, and leaves Bernie to her work.

There’s a bit of an overlap between work and hotel when Bernie comes to the room earlier than usual that week, is greeted by a bespectacled Serena on the other side of the door, swallows hard at the sight of it, the dark frames perched on her nose, and feels a thrum of excitement go through her. She’s all pale skin and black lingerie and those _glasses_ , looks like some sort of erotic school marm and Bernie finds she has no problem with it whatsoever.

Serena looks up from the folder in her lap, glances at Bernie over the rim of her glasses (and _damn,_ if that isn’t going to fuel Bernie’s fantasies for the foreseeable future) before returning to her reading. “I’m almost done. I just want to get through these five year cost projections.”

“No rush,” Bernie says, “I’m early.” She smiles and walks across the room, stepping out of her trainers as she goes, at first just to make her way to the bed, but then another plan forms in her mind. She stands in front of the large mattress, her back to Serena, and she begins to undress, slowly pushing buttons through their holes, baring one shoulder, then the other, sliding her pale blue shirt off, can see in the television’s reflection that Serena is peering over the edge of her glasses, but when she turns around, Serena is studiously focused back on the papers in front of her, as if she’d never looked up.

Bernie bites the inside of her lip to keep from grinning, unbuttons her jeans and turns to the side. Instead of shimmying them down and sliding them off with her feet, like usual, she bends at the waist, slowly peeling the denim down her legs, hair falling in a curtain over her face. She may not be able to see Serena, but she can _feel_ her gaze like a caress. She straightens back up just as slowly, flipping her hair back out of her face. Again, Serena’s eyes are firmly fixed on her work, but Bernie can see the flush on her cheeks, the way the folder trembles slightly in her hands.

“Something wrong?” she asks innocently, and Serena shakes her head, wrinkling her brow as if she’s completely focused on the work in front of her, so much so that she can’t form words. She can’t stop the smirk that’s quirking her lips, and sits on the bed, her back to Serena once more, and unfastens her bra with quick fingers, tosses the garment over her shoulder, hears it rustle the papers that Serena has laid out on the duvet.

She makes short work of her knickers and lays across the foot of the bed, stretches her arms above her head and points her toes, so every muscle is taut, every curve just so. While Bernie has always been comfortable with her body, she’s rarely put it on display like this for a lover, never considered herself a seductress in that way. But hearing Serena’s breath catch as she rolls to her stomach, seeing her eyes flick up from the papers again and again, makes Bernie feel powerful, wanton.

“Maybe,” she says, pitching her voice low, moving up the bed with leonine grace, “the work can wait?”

Serena finally sets the papers aside, gazes at Bernie, her eyes a strange combination of soft and heated all at once. Bernie, on her hands and knees, leans in to ghost her lips against Serena’s, her nose nudging at Serena’s, tipping her face to just the right angle.

Serena manages to hold out a moment longer, a contest of wills, and then she presses her lips against Bernie’s, kisses her slow and thorough, tongue teasing at her bottom lip. The edge of her glasses digs into Bernie’s cheek, a new sensation, and when she pulls back they sit slightly skewed on Serena’s nose, her eyes bright behind them.

“You’re a terrible influence, you know that?”

“I’ve heard that, yes,” Bernie says with a grin, reaching out to set Serena’s glasses straight, her fingertips just grazing Serena’s cheek as her hand drops back to her side. She kisses Serena again, nips at her jawline, moves aside the strap of her silk slip, kisses the now-bare spot, slides her hands along the smooth fabric, pulling it up as she goes, knows she’ll only be able to think of this when she’s sat across from Serena in her office.

“I suppose I should be thankful you’re not like this at work.” Serena sounds put out, even as she raises her arms to let Bernie lift the slip over her head, tries to maintain some of her stern CEO demeanor. They’ve tried so hard to keep the disparate parts of their relationship separate, that talking about work when they’re like this makes Bernie squirm, heat rushing to her core as she settles astride Serena’s lap.

“I don’t expect it would be appropriate to lay me across your desk during a board meeting,” Bernie says between kisses placed along Serena’s torso, around her dusky nipples, erect and luscious in their pinkness. “But there’s a certain appeal....to the CEO’s desk.” She feels Serena’s hips buck at that, smiles against her heated skin.

“Is that…right?” Serena gasps out the words as Bernie lightly tugs a nipple with her teeth. “Is that what you think about when we’re supposed to be working?”

“Can you blame me?” Bernie asks, her voice muffled. She laves Serena’s tender breasts with her tongue, licking away any pain, caressing her with her mouth. “Especially with a certain woman sitting behind it.”

Serena’s groan vibrates against Bernie’s lips, her hands tangling in Bernie’s hair, pulling her up into a fierce kiss. “Maybe I’ll do just that,” she murmurs against Bernie’s mouth. “Shove all of the papers off my desk and take you right there.”

Bernie’s grunt at the thought of it is swallowed by Serena’s mouth, she can feel the fire flood her veins as she thinks of it. “I’d sit in my desk chair, the same one I sit in every day,” Serena says, biting at Bernie’s lower lip, dragging it slightly before letting it go with a small pop, “and I’d be at just the perfect height to eat you out.” It’s crasser than Serena normally is, makes it hit Bernie all that much harder, and she captures Serena’s mouth again, their teeth clashing from the force of it. Bernie moves her lips just slightly, aligns their mouths, slips her tongue along Serena’s teeth, slides along Serena’s tongue, relishes the taste of her.

Serena’s eyes are dark, pupils blown wide as she pulls back, kisses her way along Bernie’s jaw, the line of her neck. She manages to wriggle a hand between them and Bernie moans as she feels Serena’s fingers gently stroke her, feels how wet she is already.

“And then every time I’m in some deadly dull meeting with a member of the board, I can think about you on my desk, coming for me.” Her fingers push deep and Bernie gasps, her eyes fluttering shut.

It’s good, Bernie thinks, to know Serena is as affected by this as she is, to know that all this sex together flies through her mind during the work day too. Serena’s thumb circles Bernie’s clit, and Bernie feels her control start to break. She comes with a strangled cry, her face buried in the curve of Serena’s neck, Serena’s voice whispering how good she is, how beautiful in her ear.

Serena strokes up and down Bernie’s back, gentle touches, and Bernie feels her heart calm, the feeling come back into her limbs. “Now, darling,” Serena says, the endearment slipping from her lips so easily that Bernie thinks she doesn’t even know she’s done it, “do you think I can get some work done before we continue?”

Bernie sits back on her heels, stunned, as Serena picks up the folder and returns to her place as if nothing happened. A spark of competitiveness lights in her, her eyes narrowing. 

She stretches casually, laying onto her side with her head toward the foot of the large bed, chin propped on her hand. Carefully she slides a hand across the smooth duvet, rests it lightly against Serena’s bare ankle. Serena glances up, an eyebrow quirked, but says nothing, returning immediately to her work and Bernie has to swallow a grin.

She curves her hand more fully around Serena’s ankle, thumb softly rubbing circles against the knob of bone, then shuffles closer, bending to press her lips where her thumb was.

“Bernie…” Serena’s voice carries a note of warning, but it lacks any real bite.

Bernie simply hums her acknowledgement, moves slowly upward; trailing her mouth along Serena’s warm skin, against the curve of her calf. When she reaches Serena’s knee she flicks her tongue against the crease, feels the muscles twitch beneath her mouth.

“What exactly are you doing?” It sounds like Serena’s stern CEO tone, but Bernie can hear the hitch beneath it, the slight breathlessness.

“Me? Nothing,” Bernie replies, her lips still pressed to Serena’s knee. She licks a stripe up along Serena’s thigh, grins at the gasp she hears from above, at the way Serena’s hips shift, her legs falling open. The mouthwatering scent of her arousal reaches Bernie’s nose and it takes everything she has to maintain her teasing. She can feel Serena holding back, can see her hands clenched on the folder, knuckles white, from the corner of her eye.

Bernie shifts, nudging Serena’s legs further apart, nuzzles against the silky soft skin of her inner thigh, darting her tongue out to taste the salt of her skin. She freezes when Serena’s hand tangles in her hair, pulling back slightly and looking up, amused to find Serena looking disgruntled by the pause.

“Aren’t you supposed to be working?” Bernie asks, voice mild, sees Serena’s distracted nod of acknowledgement. “Well, don’t stop on my account.” She glances significantly at the folder still in Serena’s other hand, waits in stillness until Serena relents, withdraws her hand, opens the folder and flips to the place she left off.

Serena’s stifled groan at the first touch of Bernie’s tongue is delicious and Bernie glances up without pausing her ministrations, sees Serena’s teeth clenched on her lower lip even as her eyes continue to move across the page before her. It spurs Bernie on and she sets to with gusto, her tongue swirling around Serena’s clit, lapping at the ample wetness between her thighs.

It’s a battle of wills now, Bernie determined to make Serena come, Serena determined to hold back. Bernie can feel the tension in her body, hear the moans and gasps that slip free as she tastes and teases all of the places she knows drive Serena wild, ratcheting that delicious tension ever tighter.

Serena comes with a curse, a gush of wetness against Bernie’s tongue as she cries out sharply. Bernie sees her through it, drinks her fill before pushing back to kneel between Serena’s legs, wiping her chin clean with the back of her hand. Serena is sprawled against the pillows, chest heaving, the contents of the folder now spilled across the bed and her glasses pushed up onto her head, silvering hair spiked wildly around them. Her eyes blink open after a moment, slowly focusing on Bernie, who can’t keep a smug smile from her face.

“Done working?” she asks, voice dripping with false sincerity.

Faster than Bernie would have expected, Serena lunges forward, snagging Bernie’s wrists and pinning her back against the bed, the air leaving her lungs with a _whoosh_. Serena’s mouth is hot on Bernie’s neck, and she groans as teeth catch at her earlobe.

“Done?” Serena’s voice is low and sultry, her breath raising goosebumps on Bernie’s skin. “Oh no, darling. I’m just getting started.”

-

Serena is starting to feel a certain sense of belonging to Holby, a familiarity with the building, with the staff, with the doctors. She gets a friendly hello from the baristas at Pulses, the cleaning staff all nod in acknowledgement. She doesn’t get quite so amiable of a greeting from all factions of the hospital, but she’ll take what she can get. CEOs are rarely known for their popularity, she’s found.

She stops by AAU on her way up to her office, tells herself it’s not to see Bernie, that she stopped in on Keller just the other day, that there’s nothing special about visiting a ward before she’s even gotten to her office. It doesn’t stop the flutter in her heart when she sees Bernie, though, bent over a chart at the nurse’s station, her hair pulled back into a ponytail, a few strands escaping, curling around her cheeks. 

She sidles next to Bernie, nudges her with her elbow. “Hello,” she says, “Sorry I didn’t get you a coffee too.” Bernie looks up as she finishes signing her name, smiles at Serena, one of those soft, shy smiles that make Serena feel like she’s witness to something special, something unique. 

“You can make it up to me by giving me a sip,” Bernie counters, her smile stretching her cheeks, and Serena offers her the paper cup. Bernie doesn’t even take off the plastic lid, just drinks right from where Serena’s lipstick has left a smear, swallows happily. “Just the boost I needed, thanks.” She slides the cup across the desk, back to Serena, their shoulders just touching. 

She catches herself staring, maybe too long, into those deep brown eyes, into that happy face, and straightens quickly, pulls herself a little bit away from Bernie, just a sliver of space between them. “What’s your schedule today, Ms. Wolfe?” she says, a bit louder than normal, a bit performative, as if proving to whoever might be listening that they are nothing more than professional colleagues. 

Bernie raises her eyebrows but doesn’t comment. “I’ve got a surgery in about half an hour, they’re prepping the patient now. You’re always welcome in my theater, Ms. Campbell, if you’d care to observe my technique.” There’s a slyness to Bernie’s tone, it makes Serena’s cheeks heat right up, warm and red. “I know it’s been years since you’ve held a scalpel in your hands.”

Serena sniffs at that, takes another sip of coffee and tries to convince herself that there’s no way she could taste Bernie when she presses her mouth to the plastic lid. “There’s life in the old dog yet,” she says, “I’d be happy to join you in theater.” It’s true that it’s been a while, but Serena has a surgeon’s hands, muscle memory, and the confidence that neither she nor Bernie will do anything they’re unprepared for.

Bernie walks her to the locker room, shows her where the extra scrubs are, winks before she leaves, making sure the door closes behind her and Serena has to take a breath, to stop herself from imagining what it would be like to pin Bernie against these lockers, to strip her out of her scrubs, leave the pale blue fabric on the floor. Instead, she takes off her pencil skirt, her blouse, folds them very neatly, rests her shoes on top, and slips into the rough cotton scrubs, a once-familiar uniform. Her earrings and necklace go next, slipped into the pocket of her top, a quick pat of her hand to check their safety - the old habits hard to shake. 

Bernie’s lounging against the wall, one foot flat against the paint, one on the floor, and she smirks at Serena, looks her up and down. “It’s a good color for you, Ms. Campbell,” she says, pushes herself to a standing position and leads the way to the operating area. 

They scrub in silence, washing their hands. Serena sings “Happy Birthday” in her head, sings it twice, because she feels nerves creeping up her spine as she gets under her fingernails with the soap. She shuts the tap off with her elbow, takes the proffered towel from Bernie. “Lead on, Ms. Wolfe,” she says with an ill-concealed grin and follows Bernie through the doors, opening with an automatic _whoosh_. 

Surgery is a funny thing, Serena thinks, almost intimate. She’s standing across from Bernie, can only see her smiling eyes above her mask, but can tell when her lips quirk into a grin. The anesthetist and the nurses seem to fade away as she just watches Bernie’s face, watches her hands, knows how talented they are, how dextrous. 

She knew intellectually that Bernie is a good surgeon, has seen her credentials, her education, but to see her in action is another story entirely. Bernie is _great_. She is efficient, fast, seems to know what’s about to happen a moment before it does, stops a bleed here, sutures there. Serena is happy to help retract, happy to suction where she’s needed. 

“Quite a pair of hands you’ve got there,” she says, without thinking, without even really taking into account the other people in theater with them. 

Bernie pauses a moment, but her hands don’t shake, she doesn’t drop anything. “I suppose you know nimble fingers when you see them, Ms. Campbell,” she answers and Serena knows she’s blushing, is thankful for the mask covering her face. “On account of all the hospitals that have benefited from your presence,” Bernie adds. 

“It’s true, I’ve quite a bit of experience _under my belt_.” Serena feels like she can’t stop, can’t control the flirtatious monster escaping from her. It’s her at her very best and her very worst all at once, and she can’t think of a less appropriate place than an operating theater of the hospital she runs. But what’s worse is that she doesn’t really want to stop; she’s enjoying this all too much, taking the opportunity to banter with the woman who makes her toes curl on a weekly basis. They are friends, it’s true, and they spend a lot of time together between the sheets, but they don’t do _this_ , the flirtatious volley, and Serena doesn’t want to think about how much she likes it.

“You’ll have to come into theater more often then, to keep your skills sharp.” Bernie’s starting to sew, her stitches small, her moves targeted and focused. 

Serena sets the suction aside, simply watches Bernie as she works. “I get plenty of practice through my extracurriculars,” she says, and hears Bernie’s intake of breath, even if there’s no other outward manifestation of her reaction. 

“That’s good to hear,” Bernie says after a moment, sounding slightly distracted as she ties the strings into a knot. “Why don’t you close?” She’s looking at Serena with a slight challenge in her eyes, but she’s left the easiest bit to offer Serena. 

“Keen to see me in action, Ms. Wolfe?” Serena accepts the implements from the nurse on her right and Bernie lifts her hands away, close enough to return to work if Serena gets into any trouble. There’s a moment, brief, where her mind goes blank and she’s not sure how to start. She closes her eyes, hears Bernie’s calming voice exhorting her to take a breath, and then it all comes flooding back to her. 

“You’ve still got it, Ms. Campbell,” Bernie says, when Serena’s almost finished, when she’s just pulling the last of the polypropylene thread up. “It’s good to see that even the suits upstairs can hold their own when pressed.”

“Only if it’s you doing the pressing, Ms. Wolfe,” Serena says, feeling a little flush with victory as she ties off the knot. It wasn’t a challenge, not really, and no one’s life was in her hands, but she has missed operating, a bit, has missed the thrill of it. And there’s something about standing opposite Bernie, every conversational tidbit laced with double meaning, that makes surgery feel intimate, almost erotic. 

They scrub out in near silence, Serena tossing her paper cap, her mask, her gloves, into the bin by the door. She heads to the locker room once more, taking off her scrubs and balling them up, dropping them in the laundry pile, finds a certain measure of comfort in knowing she’s not expected to do the washing.

By the time she’s finished dressing, shedding the uniform of a surgeon, putting on the mantle of CEO, she’s got a text from Bernie saying to meet her on the roof, if she can. Serena hasn’t been up there, not yet, supposes now is as good a time as any. 

Bernie’s sitting on a small set of stairs, hoodie wrapped around her, a cigarette between her lips. “I know we’re supposed to be better, as doctors, but there’s something satisfying about a smoke after surgery,” she says, exhaling a cloud into the air. 

“I always thought you were meant to light up after sex,” Serena says bluntly and holds out her hand, taking the cigarette between her fingers, bringing it to her lips. She’s struck violently by a similar experience, a memory from twenty-five years ago, doing this same thing.

“They frown on that in hotels, I think,” Bernie says, her eyes watching Serena, dark and lovely, as her red lips wrap around the end of the cigarette. Serena blows smoke into the air, thinks she’s always been able to taste the barest hint of tar on Bernie’s tongue, the slightest whiff of nicotine. 

Watching Bernie in surgery, when the world seemed to telescope down to just the two of them, somehow, _somehow_ , it feels more intimate than sex, than all the times Bernie’s been buried between her thighs, all the times she’s pulled one of Bernie’s nipples into her mouth. There’s something about watching her do the thing she’s best at, watching her perform with humble excellence, flirting with her all the while. Serena can’t quite put her finger on it, but she thinks, as she takes another drag of the cigarette, that perhaps it’s a bit harder to keep things separate than she might have guessed.

-

Bernie sees the wide-eyed, questioning glances between Morven and Fletch as she leans against the nurse's station, rather than going straight to her office. She rarely engages in idle conversation, steadfast in her rule to "keep home at home." It might be a little impersonal, but it's always served her well. Something about today, though, her elevated mood, happy from spending time with Serena, from a successful surgery, it makes her feel benevolent towards her staff, the wall between them fading, becoming a little more transparent, a little less strident.

Inviting Serena into surgery had been a whim, born out of a desire to spend time with her. She hadn't expected it to be as satisfying as it was, hadn't expected to feel so supported, the effortlessness of working with someone who understands her so well.

So she asks how Fletch’s day has been, listens as Morven talks about her date with Arthur, doesn't shut it down, doesn't walk away. There's a niceness, perhaps, to the human element coming into play, even at work.

She finds herself struck by the many ways she's compartmentalized her life; military, hospital, home, each contained within their boundaries, never crossing over. And now there’s Serena. Her boss. Her friend. Her lover. Clear delineations that seem to be getting hazier as time goes on.

As she's about to push back from the counter, an offer to buy coffee from Pulses on her lips, the desk phone rings, loud and jangling, and Fletch snatches it from the cradle.

"AAU." His gaze flicks up to Bernie, concerned, and all eyes turn to him, a sudden tension in the air, a preparedness to act.

He passes the phone across the desk and Bernie takes the receiver. "Wolfe," she says quickly, and her grip tightens as the head of A&E says that they've got massive casualties, that overflow is being moved up to AAU, that they should expect a myriad of different injuries.

Bernie is no stranger to this sort of massive influx of patients, but the last time she experienced it, she was in the army, in a camp full of doctors well-equipped to handle trauma intake. There's nothing here, just a few beds, untrained staff, and she already feels a bit at sea.

In the back of her mind she wishes the trauma unit was already in place, knows how much more she can do with the proper facilities. But there's no time for that now. Now the Major is on the ward and she brings her troops to order, ready to face battle.

-

Serena can tell something is wrong the moment Bernie walks through the door. Tension screams from every line of her body, her movements jerky, uncoordinated. She doesn’t even acknowledge Serena’s greeting, barely looks in her direction as she fumbles with the buttons of her loose checked shirt. 

“Bernie?” Serena repeats herself, louder this time, setting down her cellphone on the bedside table, her reading glasses beside it. She had been in meetings at St. James until late afternoon, decided the hotel was as good a place as any to get some work done without constant interruptions. There is also something wonderfully decadent about working on spreadsheets and emails while resting on a luxurious duvet, wearing nothing more than her silk slip, her suit carefully hung on the back of the desk chair nearby.

Shirt crumpled on the floor, Bernie’s jeans follow soon after and she crawls across the bed in her bra and knickers, her gaze suddenly intent and heated. Before Serena can even open her mouth to ask what’s wrong Bernie is kissing her, nipping sharply at her bottom lip and sliding her tongue into Serena’s mouth with no preamble, muffling Serena’s confused whimper.

If she hadn’t realized something was wrong before, she’s sure of it now. They normally kiss like they were made for each other, they fit together like puzzle pieces. Everything about this kiss is off-kilter; their teeth clashing, out of pace with one another, Serena trying to catch up with Bernie’s seeming desperation. She doesn’t fight it, takes Bernie’s face in her hands and meets her frantic lips, arches into the fingers that grip too hard at her hips.

Eventually Bernie seems to settle, her movements less ragged and she pulls away, breathing hard, eyes closed tightly as if she’s in pain. Serena strokes her thumbs gently over her cheekbones, pushes the fringe back from her eyes.

“Bernie, what’s wrong?” Serena keeps her voice low, soothing, as if Bernie is a skittish animal who may startle at any moment. Bernie just shakes her head sharply, eyes still shut, and Serena knows she needs to take a different tactic. “How can I help?”

At that Bernie’s eyes fly open, pupils blown so wide they’re nearly black, filled with a mixture of despair and heat so intense it pierces Serena to her very core. Her hands tighten again on Serena’s hips, blunt fingernails biting into her skin through the thin layer of silk.

“ _Please_.” The raw pain in Bernie’s voice brings tears to Serena’s eyes. She doesn’t know what’s happened, where this is coming from, but in that moment she knows she’ll do whatever it takes to try and make this better.

Tangling a hand in golden hair she pulls them back together, slanting her mouth across Bernie’s, quickly stoking her earlier fervor. Still she can feel Bernie holding back, can feel the tension in her frame, practically vibrating with restrained need. Serena mouths her way along Bernie’s jaw, bites down on the corded tendon of her neck until she groans.

“It’s all right,” she murmurs against Bernie’s skin. “I’m here. Take what you need.”

The words snap the tension in Bernie’s body, her hands grasping at the hem of Serena’s slip, roughly tugging it up over her head and tossing it away. She sits back on her heels, chest heaving, eyes wild as she catches Serena behind the knees and yanks hard. Serena can’t hold back a yelp of surprise as she slides down the bed, Bernie looming over her.

It’s a whirlwind of sensation, every moment edged in a fierceness that hasn’t touched their encounters before; Bernie’s teeth sharp against Serena’s bottom lip, her collarbone, the slope of her breast, fingers digging into her skin, sure to leave bruises, peeling away their remaining clothes. Serena is malleable under Bernie's touches, content to let Bernie work through it, humbled that she trusts her like this.

She finds herself rolled onto her side, Bernie plastered to her back. Her breath is hot on Serena’s neck, one arm wrapped tight around her torso, the other pulling Serena’s leg up over her hip, sliding between her thighs. Bernie’s teeth sink into Serena’s shoulder as her fingers roughly circle her clit, riding the knife’s edge between pain and pleasure and all Serena can do is hang on. Her hands claw helplessly at the arm wrapped around her, desperate for something to hold on to as she moans and pleads.

Bernie presses somehow closer and Serena grinds back against her, hears a grunt of surprised pleasure that is drowned out by her own cry as Bernie’s fingers suddenly push into her. She sets a relentless pace, their hips rocking in unison with the movements of her fingers, the heel of her hand chafing hard against Serena’s clit. 

It’s too much. She’s surrounded by Bernie; the heat of her skin, the strength in her body. Every inch of her is taut, desperate for release, entirely subject to the whim of Bernie’s desire. Her teeth worry at Serena’s shoulder, voice harsh as she whispers all manner of delicious filth in Serena’s ear, working her higher and higher until she comes with a sob, shuddering again and again in Bernie’s embrace.

Serena forces herself to take a few deep breaths, to slow her racing heart, and realizes Bernie is still moving, hips jerking erratically against her. Bracing her hands on the bed she pushes back, tries to give Bernie more of the friction she needs. With a growl Bernie rolls Serena forward, presses her into the mattress, wetness bathing her skin as Bernie settles into a rhythm.

Peering back over her shoulder, she can see Bernie’s head is flung back, eyes tightly shut, face clenched in a grimace of pleasure. Even like this she’s so beautiful it makes Serena’s chest tight.

She must make a noise, because Bernie’s eyes fly open and meet hers, glassy and nearly black in the dim room. Implacable hands grip her hips, fingerprints ghosting white against her skin, pulling her closer, adjusting the angle of her body, and Serena cries out as three fingers enter her unexpectedly, her hands fisting in the sheets.

Bernie is unrelenting, driving into Serena again and again, fingers matching the rhythm of her hips against Serena’s body, and all Serena can do is hold on, moaning and begging, meeting each thrust until she’s seeing stars behind her eyes. Bernie’s free hand drags down her spine, nails biting just enough, setting Serena’s nerve endings alight, even as her mind drifts away on a cloud of bliss and endorphins.

A fist tangles in her short hair, pulling back hard enough to bow her spine, the delicious burn focusing her back in the present. Bernie’s pace increases, becomes more erratic and she bends forward until her mouth is pressed against Serena’s ear.

“Come for me, Serena,” Bernie whispers roughly, teeth tugging at her earlobe, and Serena is helpless to resist, a strangled cry catching in her throat as she pulses around Bernie’s fingers, a stutter of motion and a groan in her ear telling that Bernie follows just after.

They collapse into a tangle of limbs, bodies glistening with sweat, the only sound their ragged breathing.

-

Walking back from the ensuite on sore, shaky legs, Serena sets a glass of water on the nightstand before climbing back onto the bed, stretching her legs out before her as she leans back against the headboard. Bernie is still laying where Serena left her, curled on her side, facing away. Serena wonders if perhaps she’s fallen asleep, if she should leave her to rest, when Bernie rolls over, rests her head on Serena’s bare thigh.

She looks so lost, so unlike the confident head of AAU she’s come to know well, it tugs at Serena’s heart. She lays her hand against the crown of Bernie’s head, carding her fingers through the tangled curls, scratching lightly against her scalp as they sit together in silence.

“Bernie,” she ventures, keeping her tone neutral and her voice quiet, “do you want to tell me what happened?” Serena feels Bernie’s jaw tense against her leg, thinks she may have overstepped, expects Bernie to pull away. Instead she presses closer with a sigh, her warm breath gusting across Serena’s skin.

When she does finally speak, her voice is bleak, hollow, as if coming from a great distance. Serena listens as she describes the flood of patients, overwhelming A&E, overwhelming AAU. She talks about the military convoy, on its way to bring home soldiers and medics for leave. There’s a certain dispassionate tone to her voice as she talks about the loud sirens, the repeated buzzing of her pager, the helicopters landing on the roof, bringing the injured men and women down, strapped to stretchers. She sounds disconnected from it all, as if it happened to someone else and she’s relaying it to Serena secondhand.

“We weren’t ready, Serena,” she says. “Holby cannot manage a trauma like that. We were ill-equipped, and people died.” Bernie’s fingers wrinkle the edge of the quilt and she seems a million miles away for all that she’s pressed close to Serena in this moment. “I tried to run it like we were in Kandahar, tried to triage things, arrange patients and doctors and it worked, a little, but not enough. It’s never enough.”

Serena feels her chest clench, feels like they might be getting to the root of the matter. She urges Bernie to sit up, to lean against the headboard beside her, wants to see Bernie’s face, to look at her fully. Bernie’s eyes are glazed, her face slack and it worries Serena, worries her enough that she reaches out to push the hair from Bernie’s face, to let her hand rest against Bernie’s cheek. “What’s never enough, darling?” she asks. 

That opens something up inside of Bernie and she begins to talk, but all in that same bored tone, and it’s unnerving and strange. She talks about her own time in the service, about the time she was on a medical retrieval mission, pressed in close with soldiers and medics in the back of an army caravan, hot and sweaty, their faces dirty and sunburnt but with a sense of camaraderie that imbued every interaction. 

And then she recounts the explosion that sent their vehicle into the air, remembers a sickening crunch, the screams around her, the blood mixing with the sand, and not being able to do anything, frozen from injuries, from shock, seeing her comrades around her, powerlessness and pain keeping her still. “Ironically, the only people who would’ve been able to help in that situation were the very people lying prone in the desert,” she says, bland humor twisting her mouth, the words falling from her lips and landing like shards on Serena’s skin.

“I was powerless again, Serena, but not held back by the remoteness of our camp or the difficult conditions but just from sheer lack of training and facilities. Holby isn’t Afghanistan and we should’ve been better than we were today.” Serena’s fingers tilt up Bernie’s chin, makes those distant eyes meet her own. 

“We can fix that,” she promises, knows in this moment she will do everything in her power to make it happen, to open a trauma facility within the hospital. She knows her motivation for hospital excellence is mixing with her want to keep Bernie from feeling this way again, knows there’s another danger there, one she doesn’t want to touch, doesn’t want to name. “We’ll fix it,” she says again, kisses Bernie’s lips softly, thinks she can see some of the clouds easing from her glassy gaze.

“Thank you,” Bernie whispers, presses her lips against Serena’s cheek, her fingers lightly ghosting against one of the faint marks on her thigh that will have purpled into a bruise by morning.

“For what?”

“For listening, for sitting here with me, for letting me work this out of my system.”

Serena hums, flattered and amused, her fingers stroking once more through the now smooth strands of Bernie’s hair. “You certainly don’t have to thank me for that.”

Bernie’s gaze is intent as she peers up through her lashes, leans in to press another, longer kiss against Serena’s shoulder. “But I want to thank you.” Her hand glides upward along Serena’s inner thigh, her breath hitching as fingers brush lightly against her still damp curls. “Will you let me?”

Serena nods her acquiescence, swallows against the sudden surge of desire that burns through her at Bernie’s slow, wicked smile, her teeth nipping lightly at flesh. She shimmies down on the bed, grips Serena’s hips and rolls onto her back, urging Serena to follow, her knees pressed into the mattress above Bernie’s shoulders.

Knuckles white, her fingers clench against the headboard, eyes fluttering shut as Bernie inscribes her gratitude on Serena’s skin.

-

She should be better at shaking things off, Bernie thinks. Should be better at compartmentalizing this. She’s lost countless patients in her career, has learned ways to work past the guilt and hurt. Still she feels off-kilter, like she can’t seem to get her bearings. 

All morning it’s as if her skin is too tight, an itch of anxiety between her shoulders. She keeps thinking about Serena’s fingers stroking through her hair, soothing and tender, the softness in her eyes. She thinks about how Serena was pliant, accepting, let Bernie go as hard as she needed, rough and unyielding, exorcising her demons by wringing endless pleasure from Serena, eliciting moan after moan.

Her body feels sore, heavy, unlike her own. Her thighs ache, her posture is stooped, and she couldn’t find her foundation this morning, couldn’t find anything to cover up the bite mark that Serena left behind. She finds herself pressing her fingers against it, the throb of pain helping clear her head, to shove aside how good it had felt to curl up in Serena’s arms, limp and sated, a closeness between them that went past skin, beyond sex.

Tugging her scrub top back into place over the bruise, she walks out onto the ward, determined to lose herself in work. 

She’s successful, for a time. There are rounds and patients, and she has an emergency surgery, which thankfully ends up being a routine appendectomy and nothing at all like the chaos yesterday that left her reeling.

All her productivity halts when Morven comes into her office, hands her a memo from upstairs. “Ms. Wolfe, is that - did you hurt yourself?” she asks carefully, one hand on the doorknob, ready to bolt. Bernie’s fingers go again to the small bruise, can feel that her scrub top has shifted while she’s been charting at her desk, the small dark mark visible to anyone with eyes.

She feels the flush climbing the back of her neck, can see plainly from the way Morven is avoiding her eyes that she knows exactly what this is.

“Um, I slipped. At the gym.” The lie is so transparent Bernie has to hold back a wince. She grabs the memo so quickly Morven jumps in surprise. “Anything else?”

“No...no,” Morven says. “I have a scarf in my lo-“

“That’ll be all, Dr. Digby.” Bernie stares down at the memo, her eyes hard, doesn’t look up at the sound of her office door clicking shut. She wills herself to make sense of the words in front of her, to make it so they slide into some semblance of sense.

‘Notice to all consultants: any and all new protocols must go through a stringent review process before implementation. Failure to comply may result in suspension. We want to avoid unnecessary risks and unnecessary deaths.’ Bernie feels her eyes water as she reads, her failure of yesterday coming back to haunt her. This feels pointed, directed at her, like Serena used what Bernie told her to write this memo, to enact this procedure.

Movement catches her attention from the corner of her eye and she looks up just in time to see Serena stepping off the elevator onto AAU, looking well-rested and perfectly composed, sleek and commanding in one of her tailored suits. Bernie’s grip tightens on the memo, her jaw tensing in indignation. It’s not enough to send a missive about Bernie’s failures, now Serena’s come to check up on her as well?

She doesn’t wait for Serena to come knock on her door, doesn’t hide in her office like a scared private. She marches right out to the floor of AAU, stands toe to toe with Serena Campbell, brandishing the memo in her face. “What’s the meaning of this?”

Serena’s lips part, her cheeks a little flushed, her eyes racing back and forth across the piece of paper in Bernie’s hand, like she’s trying to catch up.

Bernie doesn’t give her the chance, sharp words spilling out of her. “It wasn’t enough for you to have the board eating out of your hand, now you’re dictating ward policy without so much as a word from anyone else?”

“Bernie, what-“ Serena reaches out to take Bernie’s elbow, flinching when she pulls her arm away.

“You just walk around in your suits and your heels, acting like you own everything, marking your territory without consideration for who you piss on.” The words fall from Bernie’s lips like venom and she almost can’t believe the vitriol behind them, but she also is deriving a perverse pleasure from Serena’s open-mouthed dismay.

“Let’s talk in your office.” Serena’s voice is stern, threaded with steel, and this time her grip on Bernie’s arm is unshakable.

Bernie can feel everyone’s eyes following as Serena marches them to the office, shame at her outburst warring with the humiliation of being treated like a child. She only turns around when the office door is closed firmly behind them, meets Serena’s hard gaze unflinchingly.

“What. Is. Wrong.” It’s a question, but each word is laden with anger, frustration, confusion. Bernie can only blink in the face of it. “This is a standard procedure in every hospital across the country. I’ve been surveying policies for weeks, just trying to bring Holby up to speed.”

Bernie feels a little deflated, the wind out of her sails, the anger dissipating, leaving just a shell of bewilderment. “So this isn’t- it’s not about what I told you last night?”

Serena sighs, puts a hand to her forehead, rubs at the wrinkles. “Bernie,” she starts, and just sighs again, as if she’s at the end of her rope, as if she doesn’t know what to say.

Bernie sinks into her chair, the realization of just how far over the line she’s stepped leaving her queasy, uncertain how to walk it back now. “Serena, I- I didn’t mean…”

“It’s fine,” Serena cuts in, her words clipped. Her hands are on her hips, red nails vibrant against the black of her suit. “It’s just, oh Bernie, this can’t happen.” A hand flutters to her throat, a nervous gesture Bernie has become familiar with, thinks of fondly.

“I know, Serena, I know. It won’t happen again.”

“No,” Serena agrees. “It won’t.”

There’s a finality in her tone that makes Bernie’s stomach clench and she tucks her hands beneath her thighs to keep them from wringing nervously in her lap. “What do you mean?”

“I think it’s just getting to be too much, Bernie. This, us. I won’t be yelled at in my hospital.”

She wants to argue, to tell Serena she’s wrong, to cross the room and kiss Serena until she stops talking, until she forgets the idea entirely. The impulse is terrifying, exhilarating. It’s also proof enough that Serena is right.

She won’t beg, she won’t plead. There’s a firm set to her jaw as she looks up into those same brown eyes that looked at her with such care and consideration not twenty-four hours earlier. 

“No, you’re right,” Bernie says. “This has gone too far.”

A flash of something all too much like despair flickers in Serena’s gaze and just as quickly it’s gone, disappears behind a wall of professionalism, a distance that hasn’t been there in months. 

“Glad we’re in agreement,” Serena says, as if she were finalizing a committee proposal. “Now if you’d like to discuss the memo?”

“No, it’s fine. I understand. You can expect a new protocol report from AAU within the week.” And just like that, Bernie thinks she’s compartmentalized this whole thing. But the feeling doesn’t give her any ease, any relief, just a hollowness yawning in her. She almost feels like crying.

Serena pauses in the doorway, meets her eyes, and Bernie thinks she’s about to say something. But the moment passes as quickly as it came and with a sharp nod Serena turns and strides away across AAU.

Bernie stares down at the memo that started this all, moving it idly with her fingers. She looks up at the sound of a light tap on the door, a wild hope shooting through her that Serena’s come back. But it’s Morven instead, and Bernie schools her features into what she hopes is some semblance of normalcy.

“What is it, Dr. Digby?” She can hear the harshness in her own voice, sees Morven wince which only serves to make her feel worse. Still Morven persists, slipping full into the room and closing the door behind her.

“Forgive me if I’m overstepping, Ms. Wolfe, but...are you all right?” Morven looks so earnest, so kind, and Bernie doesn’t feel like she quite deserves it. “That didn’t seem like a normal fight with the CEO,” she continues, sitting awkwardly on the edge of one of the visitor’s chairs. It’s too much, the gentle concern in Morven’s voice piercing her like a thin knife sliding between her ribs.

“I’m fine!” Bernie almost shouts, completely belying how not fine she is. “Fine,” she repeats more softly.

Morven’s hands go up in a defensive pose, her fingers slightly curved. “Okay,” she says, her voice quiet. “If you need anything, I’m just out there, yeah?”

_She knows_ , Bernie thinks, or at least she’s guessed. Her hand goes back to the small bruise, she can’t stop herself, and she sees Morven pointedly flick her eyes away as she stands to leave.

Alone once again in the dimly lit office, Bernie pinches her fingers to the bridge of her nose, trying to ward off the headache she can feel forming behind her eyes. _This was nothing_ , she reminds herself sternly. _It was just sex. You knew that going in. Nothing has changed._ Pushing away from the desk, she goes back out onto the ward, hoping that if she thinks it enough she can convince herself.


	6. Chapter 6

Serena’s morning feels long. It feels long and boring, and she’s ready for lunch. It takes her a while to realize why: Bernie hasn’t come up with a cup of coffee, hasn’t come up with a bright smile and a wry observation about her day. The thought sends her back on her heels momentarily - when did Bernie Wolfe become such a fixture of her life?

It doesn’t help that she once again slept poorly the night before, tossing and turning into the wee hours, her mind churning over Bernie’s sharp words, the stricken look on her face. _You made the right decision_ , she reassures herself for the thousandth time over the past week. _It was fun while it lasted, but it’s not worth the risk._

The words sound hollow even in her own mind.

She rubs at her face, her neck, and trains her gaze back to her computer screen, at the budget reports she’s been analyzing. And then, as the numbers blur before her eyes, she makes an executive decision. Their arrangement may have ended, but she and Bernie can still be friends, can’t they? She leaves her office, tells her assistant she’s got her mobile if anyone should need to find her, and heads to Pulses to buy two coffees, strong and hot.

Holding a warm cup in each hand has the added benefit of keeping her from fidgeting as she walks onto AAU. Out of the corner of her eye she sees Morven shoot her a look Serena doesn’t know how to interpret, before she turns away to discuss something with Raf.

The door to Bernie’s office is slightly ajar, and Serena lightly taps on the jamb with her elbow, startling Bernie a little, her hair whipping around her face as her head flies up, her expression immediately hardening at the sight of Serena.

Serena keeps a friendly smile on her face, the one she uses to lower the defenses of recalcitrant donors, sets one of the cups down on the desk. 

“I figured you probably worked through lunch and could use a pick me up.” She leans her hip against the edge of the open desk across from Bernie, watching her carefully as she sips her own coffee.

Bernie is guarded, on edge, Serena can tell, knows her moods, her gestures, knows it all. She taps a finger against the cardboard sleeve of her cup. “Have a nice weekend?” she asks, keeping her tone even and measured, a small smile on her face.

Bernie’s wariness doesn’t subside, even as she slides the cardboard cup closer, holds it between her hands. “Quiet,” she says, terse and succinct.

Serena resists the urge to roll her eyes. She has learned all too well how stubborn Bernie can be when she feels cornered. A soft approach is needed to bridge this divide.

“Glad it wasn’t too busy for you,” Serena says, letting her smile widen, warm. “Well, I don’t want to take up too much of your time, just wanted to stop by and say hello.” She taps her free hand against the desk, a quick rap of her knuckles. Just as she’s about to leave, she hears Bernie say her name, soft and low.

“Thanks,” Bernie says, when Serena turns to look. She raises her coffee cup in a mock toast and walks off AAU.

It goes that way the reminder of the week, Serena making every effort to pretend as if nothing has changed between them, even in the face of Bernie’s wariness, working her way back into the other woman’s good graces one cup of coffee and sugary pastry at a time.

She studiously ignores how much she misses their leisurely chats from before, the unexpected warmth of Bernie’s restrained smile, that ridiculous laugh. She’s more ruthless in pushing away the frisson of electricity that shoots through her when their hands brush accidentally, the way her body seems to have developed an instinctive awareness of where Bernie is in a room. All she wants is to have her friend back.

She can’t quite say why it’s so important to have Bernie in her life, why she can’t let her go, she just knows she doesn’t want to. And she’s rewarded as Bernie slowly eases her guards down, the warmth in her eyes slowly coming back, like the sun peeking through on a cloudy day.

By the time they start on the trauma unit proposal in earnest things have settled back into some semblance of normalcy. They spend the hours after their shifts end holed up in the CEO office, Serena’s heels kicked off beneath the desk and two glasses of red wine on the surface as they debate back and forth between what is ideal and what is financially feasible.

The easiness of their friendship always astounds Serena, catches her off-guard, like somehow they were destined to find each other, even if the romance isn’t feasible. And if she sometimes finds herself staring a little too long at Bernie’s profile as she’s scribbling down notes, eyes tracing the length of her neck to the edge of her collar, well that’s just a remnant of 25 years of imaginings and a few months of blissful reality. She knows it will pass. Eventually.

She tells as much to Sian, when she invites herself to the hospital for lunch. They sit together in the hospital cafeteria because Serena doesn’t want to stray too far for a meal, and Sian takes far too much pleasure in ogling the male doctors, in crossing and uncrossing her legs, bare underneath her dress.

“I can’t believe you’ve waited this long to talk to me,” Sian grumbles over her salad. “I finally get here and the good bits are already over. At least tell me - is she as good as you remembered?”

“There’s nothing to tell,” Serena says, poking at her own salad with a plastic fork. She sees Bernie across the room, almost waves before she catches herself, doesn’t think she wants Bernie to meet Sian - doesn’t think Sian will behave herself. She ducks her head, tries to hide herself, but it’s too late and Bernie is heading in her direction. This is the downside of a functional friendship, Serena supposes, the assumption of a saved seat at the lunch table.

“Mind if I join you?” Bernie’s smile is hesitant but genuine and Serena can’t help but nod, scooting her chair over a bit to make more room. She can see Sian studying Bernie, knows she must realize who this is even without introductions. Her salad becomes even more unappealing as her stomach flips nervously.

Bernie looks at Sian, her expression bland, immutable, then she turns back to Serena, an unfamiliar look crossing her face for a moment, and Serena thinks, wonders - hopes? - it’s jealousy. 

“This is,” she pauses because this is one of the more awkward introductions she’s ever had to do. “This is my friend Sian Kors.”

Bernie’s eyes widen, lips quirking in a small smile, and she glances at Serena through her fringe, humor dancing in her eyes. She knows exactly who Sian is, and Serena wants the floor to swallow her whole.

Fortunately Bernie’s poker face serves her in good stead as she extends her hand across the table; neutral and open, as if this were any other meeting. The same can’t be said for Sian, who looks like all of her Christmas mornings have come at once.

“And you must be Bernie Wolfe. Serena’s told me _so_ much about you,” Sian says, sliding her hand into Bernie’s, holding on far too long for Serena’s comfort. There’s no doubt from Sian’s tone just what it is Serena has told her.

Retrieving her hand, Bernie looks down, suddenly very involved in extracting her sandwich from it’s cellophane wrapper. “It’s, uh, it’s nice to meet you,” she mutters and Serena can see the hint of a blush staining her cheeks.

There’s a silence that settles, where it looks as if Sian is about to lift off from her chair, the way she’s vibrating with glee. “Well,” Serena says finally, “I think I have to be getting back to my office.” She shoots Bernie a rueful smile and stands, prodding Sian in the back to get her up too.

For a moment she thinks Sian’s not going to follow, a look of stubborn indignation crossing her features. Another poke in the back and she relents with a huff, turning a blindingly white smile on Bernie as she rises from her plastic chair.

“Lovely to meet you, Bernie. I do so hope we get the chance to speak again in the future. I’d love to get your opinion on some techniques that Serena says you’re an expert in.” Her voice is positively dripping with innuendo and Serena sees Bernie’s flush spread all the way to the tips of her ears.

“All right, all right,” Serena says, grasping Sian’s elbow hard enough to elicit a yelp and forcibly begins moving her away from the table, away from Bernie. She tosses a helpless sort of smile over her shoulder at the other woman and half drags Sian towards the lifts.

“I can’t believe you,” Serena hisses under her breath as she stabs at the button. “May I remind you that this is my place of employment?”

“Oh relax, Rena.” Sian waves away Serena’s concern, bracelets jangling on her wrist. “I wasn’t saying anything she doesn’t already know.”

“I told you, that part of our relationship is over and I’ll thank you not to bring it up to her again. It’s been hard work, getting to be friends with her again,” Serena says, stepping onto the lift, her hand still at Sian’s elbow.

“‘Over’ my arse,” Sian snipes back, pulling her arm free from Serena’s grasp and leaning against the wall of the lift. “You know you can’t hide anything from me, so this’ll be quicker if you don’t bother.”

Serena crosses her arms, tries to decide whether or not Sian’s bluffing. She sighs. “It’s true, Sian, we’re just friends.”

“But you’d like to be more. I can see it plain on your face,” Sian says, pushing herself off the wall, leaning in slightly, poised at Serena’s shoulder.

Serena can feel her defenses crumbling beneath Sian’s focus, suddenly reminded why her friend is such a brilliant attorney. “That hardly matters. Yes, it was good while it lasted, but it can’t be anything more. And I won’t risk either my career or my friendship with Bernie for a shag.”

“I think it’s more than just a shag, Serena,” Sian says, suddenly serious, “and I think you know that.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Serena pulls her hand away from her neck, where it has somehow gravitated, tangling her fingers together in front of her and staring intently at the procession of lit floor numbers, avoiding Sian’s all too knowing gaze.

“Suit yourself,” Sian says, almost primly, and Serena knows Sian is going to let the subject drop for now, but that it’s not a victory. The doors open on her floor, and she strides out of the elevator ahead of Sian, her heels clicking against the tile.

-

Bernie is typing up patient notes when there’s a knock at the door. “Come in,” she says, not looking up from the screen, expecting Morven or Raf with a question, one she might not have to think about too much so she can focus on what she’s doing.

“Hope I’m not interrupting,” an unfamiliar voice says, and Bernie glances up to see Sian Kors standing in the doorway, a flirtatious smile on her lips.

“Ah, no. What can I do for you?” Bernie asks, pulling back from her keyboard, steepling her fingers.

“Nothing, nothing. I just wanted to apologize for the abrupt exit, and Serena’s rudeness. She seems to have lost her sense of humor a bit lately.” Sian enters the office fully and Bernie feels her shoulders tense, unsure of what to do, of the protocol for interacting with the friend of a friend she used to have sex with.

“I hadn’t noticed,” Bernie says, her tone brittle. She doesn’t really like that slight dig at Serena, has never found anything in Serena’s personality to be lacking, has always been envious of her easy charm and her professional acumen.

“Mmm. Well.” Sian is interrupted by the vibrating of Bernie’s phone, out in the middle of her desk, where it clearly says that a ‘Sian Kors’ is texting. Bernie scrabbles for it, pushes the button to turn the screen black, but knows she wasn’t fast enough when she looks up to see the wry quirk of Sian’s lips.

“Don’t let me keep you from....me,” she says. “I really was just stopping in on my way out. I’m sure I’ll see you again some time.” Sian wiggles her fingers in a little wave and Bernie knows her cheeks are flushed, thinks she’s blushed more today than she has in quite some time.

She looks back down at her phone, slides it open and reads Serena’s message: ‘Sian just left my office. She might head to you next. Don’t let her rile you up :)’

Bernie can feel that she’s smiling fondly at her phone, looking down at the message the way she might’ve looked at Serena’s face at one time. She’s grateful for this friendship they’ve restored, for getting to know Serena again, albeit differently. But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t think about her, doesn’t miss her in other ways too.

‘Your warning came too late. But we both survived. Drink later?’ She sends the message to Serena before she can second guess it, is trying to seem as easy with their new understanding as Serena is. But she’s also trying to find other ways to expend the energy Serena once used up, other ways to focus her emotions.

She slides her thumb back, to see the rest of her messages. She has one from a woman named Alex, inviting her out to drinks on Friday. Bernie’s paused in accepting, has hesitated for no real reason that she can see. Before she can overthink it, she opens the conversation, types out a quick ‘Sure - do you know Honeywood? 7pm?’ and sends it to Alex, closes her eyes and tries to convince herself this is what she wants.

Bernie sets her phone aside, knows Serena will accept the invitation to Albie’s tonight, knows Serena will come by her office, pry her out of her desk chair, and laughingly pull her towards the elevators. She can imagine the playful tone, the “Surely a night out with me isn’t too painful for you, Ms. Wolfe,” as they both ignore the fact that Bernie was the one to extend the offer. And Serena will loop her arm through Bernie’s, will rest her hand in the crook of Bernie’s elbow, and Bernie will close her eyes, take a breath, and remind herself they’re just friends. The scene is clear and vivid in her mind.

It all plays out almost exactly the way Bernie imagined, Serena knocking on the office door before letting herself in, her coat slung over her arms, her scarf draped around her neck jauntily. She looks just as beautiful, if a little more weary, than she did at lunch, but her face is bright at the sight of Bernie, and she can feel her heart speed up at those dancing brown eyes, that warm smile.

“Shall we, Ms. Wolfe?” she says, and Bernie’s already shutting down her computer, already standing and pulling her coat on. She smiles a brief smile and follows Serena out the door, the warmth of her tangible as they walk closely together, their shoulders brushing, their arms. No matter what they are to each other, there seems to be some sort of magnetic pull that means they end up closer together than Bernie would ever think to be with anyone else.

Albie’s is busy, loud, and Bernie is only able to secure seats at the bar. “Shiraz,” she says, holding up two fingers, as Serena settles beside her.

“You have developed a taste for red wine, haven’t you?” Serena asks with a grin, and Bernie shrugs.

“It’s easier,” she says, doesn’t say that it’s because she can still imagine the taste of red wine on Serena’s lips, the feel of it sliding along her tongue, the murmurs of enjoyment that escape from her mouth. She savors the liquid, letting it fill her mouth, fill her senses, swallows it even as she tries to swallow the memories of Serena’s wine-stained lips kissing a trail down her abdomen.

“What are you up to this weekend?” Serena asks, stirring Bernie from her thoughts. She sets her wine glass carefully on the small napkin in front of her, adjusts so it’s perfectly perpendicular to the bar, her red nails deliberate and perfect, and she looks up at Bernie expectantly.

She’s saved from answering by the buzz of her phone, looks down at it quickly, sees Alex has answered: ‘looking forward to it x’

“Ah,” she says, and holds up her phone by way of explanation. “Looks like I’ve got a date. Drinks at Honeywood.” Serena’s face darkens for a moment, her gaze slides away to the lacquered wood of the bar, then just as quickly, she’s smiling at Bernie, looks cheery and happy.

“How lovely for you. Really nice. I’m glad to hear it, Bernie.” It sounds as if she’s forcing the words from her lips, almost spitting them out, but she looks benign, and Bernie isn’t quite sure what she did, what she should do.

“Mmm,” is all she says and she slides the phone into the back pocket of her jeans. “Drink up, Campbell,” she says, “because the next round is on you. And I haven’t even told you the worst part of Sian’s visit.” Bernie pauses to sip at her wine, to heighten the tension. She can see Serena leaning forward in anticipation. “She saw my phone, right when you texted.” Serena’s open-mouthed dismay followed by her soft chuckle, do quite a bit to set Bernie’s heart aright.

-

Serena ends up at Honeywood on Friday, tells herself it's not at all because Bernie will be there, that she doesn't want to see the woman Bernie is having drinks with. She almost manages to convince herself of her lies, thinks she can seat herself in a corner of the bar, be unobtrusive, watch from a distance.

Knowing what's coming doesn't stop her hand from tightening on the stem of her wineglass when she sees the familiar head of blonde hair appear in the doorway. Bernie's clearly made an effort, dressed a bit nicer than normal. She's wearing the same blouse she wore the first time they met at a hotel, back when this all began, and the realization hits Serena like a punch to the gut.

The woman she's with is pretty - no, if Serena's being truly honest with herself, the woman is beautiful. She's as tall as Bernie, as thin, too, and Serena can't help but draw comparisons between herself and this stranger. She's younger as well, another knife to the gut. How different from Serena herself, in some ways, and how alike in others. _She must have a thing for brunettes_ , Serena thinks, half-smirking into her glass.

She watches as they sit at a table, order drinks from the waiter. Even from across the room she can tell the brunette is interested in Bernie; leaning forward on her elbows, laughing prettily at whatever Bernie has said, hanging on every word.

Bernie, from what she can tell, seems a little more reserved, but doesn't shy away from the other woman as she lets her hand drift towards Bernie's, her fingers lightly skimming Bernie's palm. Serena wonders briefly if that's what Bernie would be like with her, if she asked her out to dinner, but slams down on that avenue of thought, doesn't like the wrench in her heart at the thought of it.

The woman leans in close, whispers something in Bernie's ear that makes her laugh and blush, and Serena can see her hand resting on Bernie's knee. She swallows her wine too fast, the burn sharp in her throat, thinks about walking over there. She knows the effect she has on Bernie, knows that she could put just enough swing into her hips to draw her eye, could sit down beside her and charm her attentions away from whoever this woman is. A part of her, a large part, wants to do just that.

Instead, she orders another glass of wine, tells herself she's happy for Bernie, she wants nothing but the best for Bernie, even if she's not a part of that, but the roiling of her stomach is enough to make it clear that these are just lies, half-truths, a fantasy she's making up because the reality is too difficult to accept. She gets lost in her wine, loses track of Bernie and this other woman, has a bland conversation with the bartender, brushes off an interloper who takes up the seat next to her. She's interrupted from her reverie by a hand on her shoulder, a hand she knows very well, a hand whose mere touch is enough to make goosebumps erupt on her skin. "Bernie," she breathes, looking up into concerned brown eyes.

"What are you doing here? Is everything alright?" Bernie's hand is still resting on her shoulder and Serena realizes with a start that is the first time Bernie’s touched her on purpose since their last night together, realizes how much she's missed it.

"Oh, just having a drink - one of the board members mentioned this place during a meeting and I thought I should pay it a visit." She wonders if Bernie remembers mentioning that this was the location of her date, wonders if her lie will hold. She forces out a laugh, pitched higher than usual, and it sounds strained to her ears. "I completely forgot about your date tonight." She sees a blush stain Bernie's cheeks, always did like the way that looked, twin pink spots against her pale skin.

"Right. I, ah, I should get back, actually." Bernie gestures vaguely behind her and Serena can see the pretty brunette glaring daggers in their direction, and it fuels a spark of possessiveness in her.

Serena leans forward, pushes her breasts together ever so slightly, rests her hand on Bernie's forearm. "It's good to see you," she says, her fingers lightly pressing into Bernie's skin. She should feel embarrassed at the game she's playing, should feel some shame about the blatant show she's putting on, but all that has faded away and she's left with nothing but whatever her jealousy compels her to do. "Have a good evening." She brushes her lips against Bernie's cheek, sees a little of her lipstick has been left behind, doesn't do anything to fix it.

Bernie gasps, small and sharp in Serena's ear, and when she pulls back her whole face is flushed, right to her hairline. She stammers something to excuse herself as she walks away, returning to her seat. Serena can't help the vicious stab of glee she feels when she sees Bernie's date wipe away the mark of Serena's lipstick with her thumb.

There's no happy ending to this evening, Serena decides, nothing that will fill the pit that has grown in her stomach. She slides her credit card across the bar, pays for her drinks and leaves, doesn't let herself look back at Bernie and her date. And when she's in the car, driving home, drumming her hands against the steering wheel, all she can think is, _Sian was right_.

-

Bernie shuts the door to her flat with a sigh, leans back against it with her hands pressed to the smooth surface. She flicks her tongue out unconsciously, can still taste the bite of gin from Alex's lips on her own.

She tries to be kind, to be fair. Alex is smart, she is interesting, she is funny. But Bernie found her mind wandering all through the evening, kept thinking of other things. Serena's presence at the bar did nothing to help, a beautiful distraction always visible out of the corner of her eye. Her hand goes to her cheek unconsciously, her eyes still closed as she remembers the gentle touch of Serena's lips, the scent of her perfume hitting her nostrils.

She can't help but feel a touch guilty at how much she wishes it had been Serena kissing her in front of her flat at the end of the night, knows that if it had been, she would have asked her to come inside. Instead she thanked Alex for a lovely time, and made a vague promise about calling sometime, ignoring the disappointment in her blue eyes.

She moves away from the door, flipping the dead bolt, and strips her clothes off as she walks, uncaring about the trail she leaves behind. It was a mistake, she thinks, to wear the shirt she wore to the hotel to meet Serena, the memory of her sparkling eyes, her confident touches all wrapped up in the fabric. She turns on the shower, hot as it can go, wants to wash off this night, scrub away the guilt, the shame, the frustration.

Her thoughts are still on Serena as the water sluices over her, turning her face into the spray with her eyes closed. She doesn't believe for a moment Serena was there by accident. Holby may not be London, but it isn't a small hamlet by any means. The chances of them meeting there accidentally must be infinitesimal.

When she steps out of the shower, wraps a towel around her body, she sees her phone blinking, sees a message from Serena. She's changed the name in her phone, since meeting the real Sian Kors. Serena is nothing like her. Bernie wipes her thumb on her towel to dry it, slides open her messages and sees, ‘Holby Grand, room 423. Tomorrow night?’ She doesn't know what it means. Well, she knows what it means but not what it _means_ , not what it signals for the two of them, for their relationship, arrangement, whatever it is. But she does know that all she wants to do is type out a message back, tell Serena she'll be there.

The strength of her reaction makes her pause. She tosses the phone down on the bed, rummages in the dresser for a pair of soft lounge pants and a threadbare RAMC t-shirt. She wishes she knew more what was going on in Serena's mind. Thinking back to her little performance at the bar, Bernie could almost swear she was jealous. The thought is more satisfying than she would expect.

That's the problem with all of this; they get too close to each other, expect too much. Bernie wonders if they can start again, start fresh, wonders if it's possible to go forward when they've already broken most of their rules, already done everything but say the words to tell how much they care.

Before she can second guess herself, she grabs the phone off the duvet, types 'I'll be there' in the text window. She hesitates for a moment, then adds an 'x' before tapping send.


	7. Chapter 7

If there’s one thing Serena hates, it’s second guessing herself. She prides herself on her ability to make a decision and see it through, one way or another. The past is the past, after all and there’s nothing to be done about it. Still she finds herself glancing at her phone all morning, fretting about the message she sent, about Bernie’s response.

Have they both thought this through? Can they come back to the arrangement as they started? Serena thinks of the other woman in the bar, of the way she felt, knows that she has to put aside whatever else is in her head, her heart, because Bernie is worth it.

She takes more time than usual getting ready for the day; shaves her legs in a steaming hot shower, chooses lingerie that features more silk and lace than she normally wears to the hospital, wears her sharpest black suit with a red blouse beneath, leaves one extra button undone. It’s armor, of sorts, a barrier of expectation and pretense that shields the woman underneath. Normally it protects her from the outside world; today it feels as if it’s containing her jangled emotions, too close to the surface, like an exposed nerve.

She doesn’t normally go to work on a Saturday - the perk of a CEO’s hours - but she needs the distraction today, needs something to keep her busy until it’s time to meet Bernie. She pulls her car into her space, walks directly to the elevators, doesn’t want to engage with anyone, almost sure any interaction will lead to an explosion of emotion in the form of some sort of awkward conversation, not sure she can fake composure, not at this moment.

The door to her office closes behind her and she finally lets out a breath, kicks off her heels beneath her desk as she settles in her chair, boots up her computer. The routine of it all settles her nerves, gives her something to focus on. Her fingers dance along the keys as she types in her username and password, and she watches the spinning wheel of progress, imagines one inside of her brain, spinning and spinning until the moment that she can reach out and touch Bernie

Her eyes skim across the surface of her desk while she waits and she realizes immediately that it’s a mistake, suddenly overcome with the vivid memory of Bernie’s voice in her ear, whispering her fantasies of just how they could use this desk, of the things she wants Serena to do to her on it. 

She leans back in her chair, realizes that there’s no place in this hospital that doesn’t make her think of Bernie; no unit they haven’t talked about, joked about, no place they haven’t strolled by with coffee. Bernie has become an indelible part of her life, and she didn’t even realize.

For the first time she lets herself think about what it would be like to truly be with Bernie. Not just a series of no strings attached shags, but an actual relationship. It’s startlingly easy to imagine flirting over cups of coffee, sharing a sandwich in Bernie’s office, walking out hand in hand at the end of the night, falling asleep in each other’s arms.

Her heart thumps at the image summoned in her mind, so vivid she thinks it might be visible to the naked eye if anyone else was in the office. It’s a heady thought, even more distracting than the idea of fucking Bernie senseless in a hotel room. She shakes her head, tries to clear the thoughts, to build up the walls she let Bernie tear down, brick by brick.

With one final glance at the clock she forces herself to focus on her work. Only seven hours to go.

-

Bernie feels butterflies in her stomach, the same ones she felt all those weeks ago when she came to the hotel for the first time. She bypasses the front desk, heads straight for the lifts, pushes the button for the fourth floor. Her thoughts skitter around, and she tries to rein them in, tries to impose the military discipline she’s honed all her life. It’s nothing she hasn’t done countless times before; nothing is different, it’s just the two of them, in a hotel room. She knows how to do this, how to be this person.

Still, somehow it all feels different, the boundaries less clear cut than before. Each time she closes her eyes, tries to center herself, all she can see is Serena staring at her from across that bar, her gaze dark with jealousy and an emotion that Bernie is scared to put a name to.

She steadies her breath, shakes out her hands, loosens the muscles in her fingers from the clenched position they’ve been in for too much of today. She wonders where Serena is on the other side of the door; is she laying on the bed, wearing her glasses, like she was those few weeks ago? Is she wrapped in some sort of silky lingerie, red lips just waiting to be kissed?

There’s only one way to know, really, and Bernie is bolstered by the thought of Serena opening the door for her, Serena’s happy, glowing face, shining eyes. She wonders if she’ll get another kiss to her cheek, another mark of possession. She’s never wanted to be possessed before. 

It was hubris to think she could do this, participate in this arrangement, and not be affected.

The door swings open almost as soon as she knocks, and Serena stands before her in one of her perfectly tailored skirts and a red blouse that makes her skin glow. Her feet are bare against the plush carpet, toes manicured the same blood red as her nails and the sight makes Bernie’s heart flip a little in her chest. Without her trademark heels Serena stands shorter than usual, eyes just below Bernie’s own.

“Hi,” she says, her fingers twitching as she stops herself from acting upon her first impulse, to crush her lips against Serena’s, to hold her close, to slide her hands under that silk, to feel Serena’s warm skin under her fingertips.

“Hi.” Serena’s voice is soft, almost hesitant, and Bernie could swear she’s about to say something more. Instead she steps back into the room, making way for Bernie to follow.

The door closes behind Bernie, and she flips the safety latch in place, then moves towards Serena, stands so close, can smell the same perfume that tickled her nostrils last night. Serena tilts her head back, looks up at Bernie with a challenge in her eyes.

Bernie’s known for her ability to multitask. As she toes off her shoes, she frames Serena’s face in her hands, leans down the slight distance to press her lips to Serena’s, once, twice, and then Serena isn’t content to let her pull away, her hands threading into Bernie’s hair, holding their faces close, sliding her tongue against the seam of Bernie’s lips, and is kissing Bernie like it’s all she wants to do, like no time has passed.

She lets her hands glide over Serena’s back, fingers tingling at the slip of warm silk beneath them, and wraps her arms around Serena’s waist, pulling them tightly together. Bernie can feel every hitch of Serena’s breath echo through her own body as they kiss, not a sliver of space between them from shoulder to thigh.

_This is how it’s meant to be_ , whispers a voice in Bernie’s head, and she can’t help but agree, can’t help but compare this to the chaste kiss from Alex the night before, how different it feels with Serena in her arms. A part of her wonders if they should talk about this, if they should clear the air about what all this means before things get any more confused. But Serena’s fingers are tugging on her hair, Serena’s tongue wet and teasing in her mouth and suddenly words are the last thing on Bernie’s mind.

They move towards the bed, a practiced dance, their bodies working in tandem. Clothes are shed easily, with little thought, there’s no awkwardness left between them, just the feeling of skin sliding on skin, and Bernie doesn’t know if she’ll ever get enough.

She makes her way down Serena’s body with hands and mouth, revisiting all of her favorite spots, the ones that make Serena writhe and gasp, her own personal pilgrimage. When she finally settles into place with one last gentle nip to Serena’s inner thigh, she pauses. Serena’s eyes are blazing down at her, heavy-lidded and sparkling above her flushed cheeks. Sliding one hand higher, Bernie slots their fingers together, feels Serena’s spasm as she lowers her head.

Bernie loves the taste of her just as much now as she did the first time, as she did twenty five years ago. As she licks into Serena, all she can think is how right this feels. As she uses her tongue to toy with Serena’s clit, all she can think is how perfect this feels. All the moments in her life have led her to this, every decision she’s made has brought her here, and she feels Serena squeeze her hand tight as she comes with a groan.

Serena’s hands fumble at her shoulders, tugging her along as Bernie crawls upward, and she wraps herself around Bernie, pulls her down to lay atop her. Kisses Bernie slow and sweet, her tongue darting out to capture the wetness still glistening on Bernie’s skin.

“Okay?” Serena asks, when she pulls away, her voice husky and low, thrumming through Bernie’s sensitive body. 

“Okay,” Bernie says, because it is, because they’re in this together, because whatever happens, she doesn’t want to miss out on it.

Serena’s smile is soft and lovely as she leans up to recapture Bernie’s mouth, her hands slipping between their bodies to cup Bernie’s breasts. She groans into Serena’s mouth as those clever fingers stroke her nipples, sending bright sparks of pleasure through her core to settle between her thighs.

Serena’s hand moves down, trails a path along Bernie’s skin, her fingers light, those red nails gently scraping against her already sensitive flesh. She bites at Serena’s lower lip, drags it between her own, and Serena toys with the wetness pooled at the apex of Bernie’s legs, just flirts with the outer edge, not dipping inside her, not yet.

She can’t stop her hips from squirming, trying to increase the pressure, but Serena’s touch remains feather light. Bernie rests her forehead against Serena’s, her breathing ragged.

“Serena, _please_.”

That’s all it takes, her quiet request, and Serena slides her fingers in, firm, hard, sure. Confident. Bernie closes her eyes as she feels fireworks explode inside of her, feels too much and not enough all at once, just holds Serena as close as she can, trusts her to take the lead, to be in control.

The movement of her fingers never faltering, Serena rolls them to the side, Bernie’s leg draped over her hip, giving her more room. Their heads are on the same pillow, breath intermingling. This close all she can see is Serena’s eyes, wide and dark and likely to swallow her whole; it’s too much and Bernie closes her eyes, focuses on the pleasure that’s overwhelming her.

Her orgasm overtakes her like a wave; she drowns in it, feels submerged in it, clings to Serena like a life raft. When she comes up for air, she still just sees those twin brown eyes, anchoring her to the present. Serena’s face is flushed, her chest heaving, and Bernie kisses her once more, quick, gentle. “Just like old times,” she says. “Back in the saddle.” She means it as sort of a joke, something to lighten the mood, but it comes out soft, almost wistful, and she sees the crinkle of Serena's eyes as she smiles. 

-

Serena stands in the bathroom, stares at her face in the mirror. The door is open slightly and through the reflection in front of her, she can see Bernie sitting on the bed, reaching down for her trousers. The sight makes her chest ache, her fingers pressing to her sternum to soothe the discomfort. Leaving after these meetings has never been entirely comfortable, but she has found a certain peace with it over time.

Now she finds herself wishing it wasn't this way.

She wants to leave the bathroom, to coax Bernie back on the bed, to lay down next to her. She remembers falling asleep in the hotel, the feeling of being nestled against Bernie's warm body, how comforted she felt, how safe.

_That's not what this is_ , she reminds herself for the millionth time, staunchly ignoring the voice in the back of her mind that asks _but couldn't it be?_

She's the one who made the rules, she's the one who has been so militant about keeping this confined to the hotel rooms. The rigid structure she’s created chafes, but it's for the best, it has to be. She pushes the bathroom door shut, knows there's a chance Bernie will leave without saying goodbye, chases her regret away with the reminder that this is the way she wants things, tells herself so firmly she almost believes it.

It doesn't stop the sick feeling that twists her stomach when she hears the door to the hotel room open and then click shut a moment later.

The feeling never quite goes away, even as they settle back into the old pattern, the weekly meet-ups. Serena always wants just a little more, wishes for a kiss good-bye or a little friendly conversation, but Bernie is respectful of the rules she made. Never pushes, never lingers, never makes a fuss.

They spend more time together than ever outside of the hotel, often working late into the night preparing the trauma unit proposal to go before the board. It strikes Serena all over again just how well they complement one another, working together as seamlessly in this as they had in theater.

The trauma proposal becomes Serena's primary focus, something she finds herself pinning her hopes on. She wants it quite badly, wants it so Bernie never has to have one of those days again, wants it to put Holby on the map, wants it because it will make a difference. She doesn't let herself think about Bernie's presence threaded through it all, how she's the who that is making this possible, plausible.

Friday night comes and instead of being naked in a hotel somewhere, they're ensconced in Serena's office, arguing over the finer points of equipment allocations. She would never admit it, but sometimes Serena plays devil's advocate a little more than usual, just to get a rise out of Bernie. Always beautiful, Bernie is glorious when she's arguing for something she believes in, her normally impassive face lit with some of the same passion that Serena has become accustomed to seeing directed at her in bed.

She offers to make coffee, thinks they could go for much longer with a dose of caffeine in their systems. Bernie accepts with a distracted air, running her fingers through her hair as she squints at the computer screen, never taking Serena's admonishments to get a pair of readers to heart. 

Serena walks to the small staff lounge down the hallway from her office, finds the tin of grounds on the shelf and sets about the familiar, somewhat calming process of making coffee, finds styrofoam cups in one of the cabinets, taps her fingers on the counter while she waits. It strikes her how quiet it is, how empty the place feels after hours. She thinks there's probably no one else on this floor, that she and Bernie are the only people here, the only light shining from under her office door.

The realization sends a little thrill down her spine, the memory of Bernie's fantasies about Serena's desk floating forward in her mind. It's a gross breach of protocol, both of the hospital and the rules that she and Bernie have set. But she can already feel the first tendrils of desire sliding through her, her mind supplying vivid images of the possibilities.

Without thinking too much, without letting herself question it, Serena leaves the cups on the counter, leaves the coffee in the pot, other plans forming, other ways to stimulate their tired minds, their tired bodies. She takes a deep breath as she reaches for the door to her office, opens it and leaves any sense of contrition, of self-preservation behind.

-

There’s a feral look on Serena’s face when the door to her office closes behind her. Her eyes are dark, dark as the suit she wears. The black fabric hugs her figure, clings to her curves the way Bernie wishes she could. Her legs are beautiful, encased in silk stockings, disappearing into the point of her black shoes, shiny, like the surface of the desk behind her.

“There’s no one else around, Bernie,” Serena practically purrs, her lips caressing the syllables.

Bernie shifts, feels small and unworthy in her scrubs, sitting in one of the chairs by Serena’s desk, but it doesn’t seem to matter as Serena saunters, her hips swaying, towards her. She hooks her fingers into the pockets of Bernie’s scrubs, pulls her to a standing position, their hips meeting together squarely. 

“Remember that night?” she whispers into Bernie’s ear, her lips just brushing the curve of cartilage. “When you said you wanted me to take you on my desk? To shove the papers aside? To lay your body out in front of my chair?” Bernie squirms, because she does remember, because hearing it in Serena’s voice is making her want it all the more, the low husky tones making it all the better.

“I think you do remember,” Serena continues, backing towards her desk, pulling Bernie along with her. Bernie lets herself be led, follows Serena around the desk, levers herself up on the edge of it, closes her eyes at the sound of Serena shoving papers aside, the ethereal noise of the thin sheets falling through the air.

Serena helps Bernie lay back against the smooth wood, slides her hands up against Bernie’s sides, taking the scrub top with her, loosening the clasp of her bra with practiced hands, and Bernie is bared to the cold air of the office, her nipples erect, from both atmosphere and want. 

Serena is stretched, using the extra height of her heels as an advantage, leaning her whole body against Bernie, the buttons of her blazer scraping against Bernie’s sensitive skin. She holds both of Bernie’s hands in one of her own, bends down to kiss Bernie, wet, messy, powerful, and Bernie arches helplessly into her touch.

Serena kisses her and kisses her, uses her tongue, her teeth, and Bernie laps it all up, grinds her hips upward, awkwardly trying to increase the friction, their contact. Then Serena loosens her grip, kisses a path down Bernie’s stomach, pale and trembling, until she reaches the edge of her scrub bottoms. She looks up at Bernie with a devilish glint in her eye and loosens the tie with her teeth.

Berne props herself on her elbows, looks down at Serena, seated in her official chair, and uses her feet to draw in the wheeled chair closer, rests her knees against the wooden arms. She lifts her hips slightly, lets Serena pull her bottoms down further, shivers as Serena smiles up at her.

And then Serena licks her; no foreplay, no preamble, nothing, just leans in, presses her mouth right to Bernie’s wet core, because she is wet - _so_ wet - and licks her deeply, fully.

Bernie groans, a guttural noise pulled from her throat and her head falls back; her arms feel limp, but she’s not meant for acrobatics, can’t bend in half just for this, much as she might want. She holds herself up, the exertion making her already slackened control even looser, and she knows it won’t be long until she comes, thinks Serena knows it too.

Serena slips out of the chair, onto her knees, so careful of her stockings even in the midst of this. Her mouth is at the perfect level and Bernie wonders wildly if she’s had a desk specially made just for this. Her hand, nails painted a dark red, slides up against Bernie’s stomach, against the underside of her breasts, fondling, the other hand gripping at Bernie’s rear, her mouth lapping and sucking all the while.

When Bernie comes, it’s with Serena’s fingers leaving marks on her backside and her nails scraping at her nipple. She lets her elbows drop, lets her whole body relax against the desk, her chest heaving. Serena doesn’t seem content to stop, not for a moment, and Bernie’s pleasure-numbed limbs are malleable as Serena turns her over, her bare chest now plastered to the smooth desk, her hands splayed out in front of her.

Serena, still clothed in her CEO finery, in her dangerous garb, drapes herself against Bernie’s back even as her fingers work their way in between Bernie’s thighs. Her feet, in their perilous heels, bookend Bernie’s, still in her sneakers, her scrubs awkwardly bunched at her ankles. 

Berne thinks, just for a moment, about those heels pressed slightly into her back, her rear, the extra stimulation of it all, and feels a shudder go throughout her body. Serena slides one finger inside of Bernie, then two, three, pumping quickly, moving fast, and Bernie grips the opposite edge of the desk with her fingers, holds herself steady as Serena finds a rhythm, keeps them going. 

She ruts back against Serena’s hand, feels her arse cupped by Serena’s thighs, the soft wool of her pencil skirt. It feels like only a moment before she comes in a burst of sensation, pleasure exploding behind her eyes, exhaustion taking hold right on its heels because it all feels too much, and she wants to curl up into a ball, to curl up and have Serena stroke her hair and tell her it will be fine.

Instead, Serena pulls away, plucks tissues from the box on her desk and wipes at her hands. Bernie rests a moment, her grip finally loosening from the desk, her fingers sore and red.

“Another rule down then,” she says once she’s recovered, pulling up her scrubs, casting about for the shirt Serena threw off earlier. She laughs, a little drunk on endorphins, can’t help but think the rules were all ridiculous anyway, the idea of them now, as they are, trying to put limits on this. It seems as silly as trying to keep a wave from washing back into the ocean.

Bernie tugs her scrub top over her head, shaking her hair back from her face and advances on Serena with a leer. She pushes Serena’s shoulders lightly, just enough that she falls into her plush chair with a little _oof_ of breath, Bernie following as it rolls back to rest against the bookcase. 

Dropping to her knees, her hands slide up over the curves of Serena’s silk-encased legs, catching the hem of her pencil skirt and pushing it higher. She can smell Serena’s arousal, potent and mouth-watering, can see the flush in her cheeks as Bernie hooks her fingers beneath the waist of her knickers, slowly tugging them down past the delicate suspender belt, tossing them carelessly over her shoulder. 

“You know what they say...” Serena’s fingers are clenched white on the arm of the chair as Bernie settles one of those glorious legs over her shoulder, glossy nails digging into the finish hard enough to leave a mark. The narrow heel of her pump scrapes against Bernie’s back through the thin fabric of her scrubs, the sensation even more vivid than she imagined, raising gooseflesh on her skin as renewed desire floods through her body.

“Rules are made to be broken,” she murmurs, lowers her head with a smile.

-

“Two coffees, and a pan au chocolate.” 

Bernie hands over the money and steps out of line, scrolling through the messages on her phone. It’s been a busy week, between traumas, surgeries and the never-ending pile of paperwork on her desk. It feels like she’s hardly seen Serena since they wrapped up the trauma unit proposal, thinks that caffeine and a chat would be the perfect pause in her hectic day.

“Gettin’ a coffee for your girlfriend?” Bernie whips her head up, blonde hair flying, and looks at Fletch, standing behind her, a cheeky grin plastered across his face. She knows her eyes are wide, feels a flush creeping up her face.

“What? Who? No, I’m - Serena’s not my girlfriend. Not that Serena is - It’s not - we’re just - I’m just getting coffees,” she finishes lamely. Fletch’s grin grows even wider and he leans in, close enough that Bernie can smell his aftershave.

“Just joking, boss, no need to get your knickers all twisted. It’s nice, that you’re friendly with the big boss, makes things easier on us down in the ward.” He pats Bernie’s shoulder and heads off, leaving Bernie feeling like she’s let on far more than she meant to.

The barista has to repeat her name twice before she grabs her order, apologizing to the line that’s built up behind her and hurrying toward the elevators. Her heart’s still beating fast and she feels like everyone she passes is staring at her. Thankfully the lift is empty when she gets on it, leans against the back wall, fingers tapping against the cardboard sleeves of the cups in her hands.

It’s a few seconds before she realizes she hasn’t yet pressed the button for Serena’s floor, pushes it with her knuckle, and tries to tell herself to be normal, to act normal. It was just a joke, there’s nothing to it, no one suspects anything. When the doors open on the administrative floor, Bernie squares her shoulders, and heads right to Serena’s door, her assistant waving her in with a smile, her presence common enough that she’s a known entity in this office.

She taps her knuckles against the wood as she pushes the door open with her shoulder. Serena is at her desk on the phone, but she looks up, gives a brilliant smile that that makes Bernie’s breath stutter in her chest as she walks across the room. She puts both cups on the desk, slides the pastry closer to Serena, settles into the visitors chair to wait.

Serena is happy on the phone, animated, her free hand waving around, a low chuckle escaping her lips, and Bernie is entranced. She doesn’t often have the opportunity to stare at Serena, unguarded, and takes advantage of it. When Serena puts the receiver down, Bernie notes her still-red nails against the black plastic of the phone, can’t help the thrill that runs through her, can’t help but imagine those hands on her thighs, spread across the desk that’s in front of her now. She gulps, more audibly than she’d like, and meets Serena’s expectant gaze.

“I thought you might need a break.” Bernie manages to get the words out, hopes she isn’t blushing too badly.

“You’re a lifesaver,” Serena responds with another heart-stopping smile, lifts the cup to her lips and takes a long sip, leaving a smudge of red lipstick on the white rim. “How are you today?” she asks, licking a coffee drop from the corner of her mouth, and Bernie has to pull her gaze from the movement back up to Serena’s shining eyes.

“Fine. It should be fairly quiet on AAU, though I’m sure I’ve jinxed it by saying that,” Bernie answers, a small smile on her lips. “It’s funny, while I was waiting for the coffees, Fletch asked if I was getting one for my girlfriend. Uh, for you.” She tries to play it off casually, her tone light, doesn’t say that she fumbled the interaction, that she was the one who put Serena’s name into the conversation.

It clearly doesn’t work because Serena freezes, cup halfway to her mouth, eyes suddenly cool and shuttered. Bernie knows this look, knows that she’s now in the room with the CEO, not with Serena, the difference putting her stomach in knots.

“I said we were just friends,” she adds quickly, trying to do damage control. “He was just joking, he didn’t mean anything. Just thought he was being funny.” Even as the words leave her mouth, Bernie hates them. Hates that she has to justify their relationship to anyone, that she feels like she’s done something wrong, that something as simple as a joke can so easily unbalance them.

Serena is looking past Bernie, her brow slightly furrowed, her hands folded on the surface of the desk, and Bernie can practically see the wheels turning in her mind, thinks that she’s always been at the mercy of what Serena wants, what she decides, chafes against that a little. 

“I think,” Serena says, her voice slick and smooth and Bernie doesn’t know which Serena she’s talking to in this moment, “we have to be honest with ourselves about this arrangement.” Bernie feels her heart drop, her stomach empty, prepares herself for the one-two punch she knows is coming. “It isn’t...it isn’t just an arrangement any more, is it?” And suddenly Serena looks small, fragile, vulnerable, and Bernie wants to cross the distance between them.

She slides her hand forward on the cool surface of the desk, stops a hairsbreadth from Serena’s hand. Her pulse is fluttering wildly in her throat. For all that she’s thought about this, now that the moment is here, she’s terrified and excited in equal measure. She knows how much it must have taken for Serena to make the first move, is humbled by her bravery. All she can do now is try to be equally brave.

“I don’t think it is.” Her voice is quiet but sure, despite her nervousness, eyes locked with Serena’s. “I’m not sure it ever was.”

Serena’s mouth twitches into the barest hint of a smile and she crosses the distance, grabs Bernie’s hand in her own. “We’ve already broken every one of the rules,” she says, her palm smooth against Bernie’s as she laces their fingers together. Bernie’s struck by the fact that they’ve never held hands outside of the bedroom.

“All but one,” she says, her voice coming out hoarse, like a whisper. “But if we decide...if we admit this isn’t an arrangement...” She trails off. That’s the last rule standing between them and deciding to be together for real. Serena squeezes their joined hands, brings Bernie’s fingertips to her lips. 

“I think it’s fair to say we’re admitting that now.” Her breath ghosts across Bernie’s knuckles, eyes sparkling with affection, a warmth that fills Bernie right down to her toes, and she feels a smile, true and genuine, creep across her face.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from [lavenderseaslug](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderseaslug): This fic could well be about me and Jess, if you imagine that the one-night stand is our first conversation on tumblr messenger and every time they bone is when we write fic together. Glad to have ktlsyrtis as my partner in crime forever. 
> 
> from [ktlsyrtis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ktlsyrtis): Forever grateful to have been brought together by these two dummies in love. Writing with Beth is one of the the true pleasures in my life, only surpassed by my immense good fortune in having her as my friend. <3

They go for a drink on Sunday, a proper drink, at a pub across town rather than Albie's, a way to get their bearings before the work week commences. Sitting at a table in a darkened corner, sipping their wine and discussing what comes next, their hands tangle together on the tabletop, their fingers never straying far. Bernie feels a sense of surprise at how intimate it all seems, Serena's thumb lightly brushing back and forth against her pulse point while they sit next to each other in public, not hiding anything for once. In all discernible ways, this touch is less than anything they’ve done in all their months of sex, and yet in this moment, it feels like so much more.

"There are logistics to be thought of, things I've been worried about from the start," Serena says, surprising Bernie - but then again, they never did talk about much in regards to their arrangement, never how it affected either of them. "Right now, I'm most concerned that the trauma bay might come across as some sort of coercion or repayment for sexual favors."

Bernie almost pulls her hand away at that, suddenly aware of repercussions, aware that the hospital has a well-functioning gossip mill, that people might not think well of this relationship, _their_ relationship. But Serena just grips her hand tighter. 

"I think the best thing is for me to recuse myself from the process, turn the project over to my deputy and the two of you can present it to the board."

Of course she has a solution, of course she’s thought this through. Bernie is, as always, impressed with Serena, with her business acumen, her problem-solving abilities. She says as much, gets a brief peck on the lips as a reward, Serena's eyes shining, her mouth happy. There are also rules for this arrangement too, and Bernie feels less shock at that. Just one is the same as before, though: Serena wants to limit workplace dalliances, to keep things professional. She uses the word “canoodling” with bright eyes, remembering how Bernie snorted at it before.

Bernie finds herself becoming more unsettled as they talk, realizing just how much of a change this truly will be from what they had before. Her free hand fiddles with her coaster, thumbnail fraying the cardboard edge.

"What is it?" Serena's gaze is guarded, a little distant and Bernie can see the worry there, the concern that she might change her mind.

"I have a rule I'd like to add. Not a rule, really, more of a request." Bernie takes a breath, feels the air fill her lungs, focuses on that. She exhales, Serena's eyes still on her. "I think we might want to take sex off the table. Not forever. Just for the time being."

Serena squeezes Bernie's hand again, a quick pulse, relief washing over her face. "I think that might be wise. But I will say I'm glad to hear it won't be forever." Her eyes glint, her hand in Bernie's, warm and solid.

"I just want us to find our feet in this without everything getting muddled." Bernie hesitates, ducks her head, glad it’s dark enough that Serena likely can't see the flush on her cheeks. "I..I care about you, Serena, and I don't want to muck this up."

"That's very sweet, Ms. Wolfe," Serena says, pulling her hand back, just to sip at her wine. "I care about you quite a bit too, it seems." Her words are professional, but her eyes are warm and sparkling in the low light.

Bright and early on Monday morning, Bernie learn that there’s paperwork associated with dating the CEO of the hospital, paperwork that lets Human Resources know it’s going on, paperwork that assures them she’s not being coerced into this in any way, paperwork that makes the whole thing feel dry and lifeless, that sucks the romance out of it a bit. But when she’s signed all the paperwork, turned it into the office and texts Serena that it’s done, the three heart emojis she gets in response make her heart beat a little quicker, remind her that it’s all worth it. 

Bernie spins slightly in her office chair, her feet tapping at the ground, and she can still feel the heat of Serena's hand from the night before, can still picture her glowing face, alight with affection and kindness, can still taste the wine on Serena’s lips, pressed against hers in a good night kiss. She doesn't often like being open, being vulnerable, sharing herself with others, but something about Serena brings it out in her, makes her want to be that person, if only for her.

As if summoned by her thoughts, Serena appears in the doorway, two cups of coffee in hand and a smile on her face. Bernie feels her own lips stretch in response, takes the cup that Serena holds out to her, their fingers brushing together, lingering for a moment.

"Just a quick pick-me-up," Serena says before pulling her hand back. "I saw you've got quite a full plate of surgeries today." Bernie wonders if she's angling for another invite into theater, if she can keep herself together in that charged atmosphere, remembers how flirtatious Serena was, how appealing. "What I wouldn't give for some time operating. Maybe you'd like to swap? Go to a board meeting for me?" 

Bernie laughs at that, settles. She finds herself looking at Serena, long, uninterrupted, finds herself staring at her lovely, familiar face. She thinks she'd be embarrassed, if not for the fact that Serena is staring back, a small smile quirking her lips.

"Would you like to go out?" Bernie blurts out unexpectedly, startling them both, feels heat climbing the back of her neck. "With me, I mean. On a date. A proper date." Serena just stares at her, eyes wide, and Bernie tries not to flinch, mentally berating herself for making such a hash of things already.

"You silly berk," Serena says after a long moment, a moment which feels unending, fondness filling her voice. "Of course I would."

Bernie huffs out a sigh of relief, her heart pounding in her chest even as she beams. "Great. That's great." She feels light, giddy in a way she hasn't been possibly ever.

"I'm free Friday," Serena says, an echoing smile spreading across her cheeks. "A different sort of plan than usual for us, maybe."

"Still good, I hope?" 

Serena steps close, her hand resting atop Bernie's where it sits on the surface of her desk, shielded from the view of the ward. She tangles their fingers together and gives them a gentle squeeze. "Very good."

Bernie wants to let this linger, to hold Serena's hand for the whole day, to never let her go. But work calls, duty calls, and Bernie doesn't want to give the yentas around the hospital too much ammunition on the very first day of this - this relationship.

It's halfway through her next surgery before the full implication hits her, rocks her back on her heels. She's taking Serena Campbell out. On a date. Which she needs to plan.

Her hand falters with the scalpel, just for a moment, but she steadies herself. She's done this before, she's gone on dates. She went on one just the other week. Just because Serena is involved shouldn't make it any different, though Bernie knows it means it's more important. When she's scrubbed out, her hands pink from soap and water, she does the only thing she can think: ask her coworkers for restaurant recommendations. If they're surprised at being engaged in idle conversation by their recalcitrant superior for a second time, they hide it well.

Still, Morven's gaze is all too knowing as they talk and Bernie thinks she must suspect what this is all about. Feels it's confirmed when she suggests a trendy new bistro on the other side of town, emphasizes that it's known for its outstanding wine list.

Serena has never made a secret of her enjoyment of shiraz, talks about it with just about anyone, mentioned it in her welcoming remarks on her first day of work. Bernie can do nothing but thank Morven quietly, wonders if there's a subtle way to thank someone for discretion without making it all awkward and strange.

She doesn’t text Serena the name of the restaurant until after work, can’t handle the stress and the butterflies, not when she has to be focused on what’s in front of her, on the patients she’s treating. She can only hope some of the nerves, the frissons, lessen with time, that she’ll be able to think of Serena without getting hopelessly distracted, almost lovesick. They agree on a time, on arriving together, and Bernie suggests taking a cab so wine consumption won’t have to be limited. Serena just responds with a winking face, and Bernie takes that as approval.

-

Serena thinks she's never had a week go by so quickly, caught up in paperwork and too many meetings and getting her deputy up to speed on the trauma proposal. It's only in the evenings, when she's left work too late, when her brain calms, her mind eases, that she finds herself thinking about Bernie Wolfe.

There are moments she still can't believe this all is really happening. The chances of reconnecting with a one night stand from half a lifetime ago were already beyond imagining. To have not only found Bernie again, to have it become more than anything she ever expected, and now to be taking the chance on a real relationship? The thought of it fills her stomach with butterflies.

She wonders what to wear on their date, standing in her closet, surrounded by her wool suits, her silk blouses. Bernie's seen her at work, professional and elegant, seen her stripped bare, has been the one to toss her clothes aside, and yet she feels a certain pressure to choose the right thing, to look her absolute best.

Shuffling through the hangers she pulls free one from the back; a dress, softer than what she would ever wear at work, more feminine, a large scale floral print in bold colors. She carries the dress out to her bedroom, holds it to her chest as she looks critically in the full-length mirror.

The skirt is flowing, hitting around her knees, and she thinks of Bernie's dark eyes at the sight of her bare calves, nicely turned in a pair of heels. It seems right, seems good, different enough to act as a demarcation from all the times they've been together before. She thinks she might even have a lipstick to match, thinks about leaving the imprint of her mouth against Bernie's skin.

She sighs as she remembers that is very much off the menu for the evening. Serena knows Bernie is right about this, the decision to put the physical side of their relationship on hold a wise one. They've done this whole thing backwards, stumbled into bed together countless times before ever even considering what they might come to mean to one another. Still, she finds she already misses touching Bernie, misses they way their bodies fit together, all that warm, smooth skin beneath her hands.

It comes out of her in strange spurts, she's found; shoulder nudges when they happen to be walking down the same hallway, a squeeze to Bernie's arm when she takes her leave, the press of her foot against Bernie's trainers when they're sat opposite each other at a table. She can't restrict herself, can't stop reaching out, confirming the reality of Bernie. If she can't touch Bernie in other ways, she'll content herself with this, enough in it's own way, enough for now.

The whole thing feels so much more real now, the admission that this is all more than just sex turning everything on its head. She knows Bernie feels the same, is as invested in this as she is, but it doesn't stop her from occasionally being terrified.

She slips the dress on, smooths her hands down the sides, remembers going through a similar ritual when dressing for the gala, remembers the way Bernie looked at her then, hopes tonight can measure up. She combs her fingers through her hair, stares at her face in the bathroom mirror, aware of every pore as she dusts on blush, applies mascara, lipstick.

One of the perks, she muses, is that she's already very aware of Bernie's attraction to her, of their attraction to each other. It's a relief to not have to worry about concealing wrinkles, contouring curves, any of the tiny artifices she would normally undergo before a first date.

They know each other well by now in some ways, but Serena still thinks they might have to fumble through awkward small talk and slightly stilted conversation in order to find their new balance. She doesn't know where Bernie grew up, doesn't know her favorite color or how she likes her meat cooked. But she wants to find out, wants to know these things.

She's just walking down the stairs when the front bell rings and she can't help but compare this to all the times she's opened a hotel room door at Bernie's knock, ushering her inside and all the things that came after. This time Bernie stands on her front stoop, a shy smile on her face, hands stuffed deep in the pockets of her soft pink coat.

"Let me grab my coat," Serena says a little breathlessly, reaching behind her door to grab the trench hanging from the hook. She doesn't miss Bernie's appreciative glance as she slides her hands into the arms of the jacket, feels like she's chosen her attire correctly, wonders what Bernie's hiding under her coat. With a tug at the tie, knotted around her waist, Serena smiles brightly at Bernie. "Shall we?"

The cab ride over is quiet, neither of them entirely sure what to say, where to start. Halfway there Bernie slides her hand across the vinyl seat, takes Serena's hand in her own as they share a tentative smile and some of Serena's nervousness eases.

"Morven says this place has an _extensive_ wine list," Bernie says and Serena lets out a chuckle.

"So that's why you picked it, eh?" Serena had wondered about the location, wondered if Bernie picked some place where she knew they wouldn't see anyone from work, if there was an element of shame or fear about being open, but the fact that she spoke to Morven about it, that she isn't hiding this from her coworkers, fills Serena's chest with warmth.

When they get to the restaurant, there’s a bit of fumbling, Bernie trying get to the door before Serena, trying to open it for her, and Serena walking too fast, their hands meeting on the handle. Bernie says her name to the hostess, they get seated at a table in the front window, not in the cozy booths at the back where Serena might feel less on display.

It's awkward at first, as she suspected, every inch the first date despite how well they know one another. She learns over appetizers that Bernie has an older brother, her parents are living out their retirement in Greece; basic information, but it opens a window into Bernie, deepens Serena's understanding of her. They talk about her time in the military, the events leading up to the accident that brought her to Holby, Serena gripping Bernie's hand as she recounts her sketchy memories of the explosion, of everything that came after.

She thinks of the scars on Bernie's chest, her neck, thinks of the evening they spent in bed when Bernie warily spilled her heart out to Serena. She’s never known quite what to say, how to react, but in return she offers the story of Adrienne, of the rings that left pockmarks across her shoulders, of the singular pain of being forgotten by the one person she always counted on to remember her.

There's nothing to say, really, and Serena appreciates that Bernie doesn't try. Just looks at her with soft eyes, full of care, squeezes her hand that much tighter for a moment. 

Their food arrives, forcing them to take their hands back, smiling as the waiter brings another bottle of the spectacular wine they're sharing.

Silence reigns for a bit as they both cautiously sample their food. Serena’s is soft, tender, juicy, and suddenly all she wants is for Bernie to have a taste. She dares a look at her dining companion, holds out her fork invitingly. “Best chicken I’ve had in ages,” she says. Instead of taking the utensil from her proffered hand, Bernie leans down, wraps her lips around the tines of the fork and pulls the chicken into her mouth.

Again, like so many other little moments this evening, it feels more intimate than anything else they’ve done behind the closed door of a hotel room. Bernie blushes as she chews, her tongue darting out to catch the sauce that dripped against her lips. Serena can’t pretend she isn’t mesmerized, can’t pull her eyes away from Bernie, bashfully swallowing, the muscles in her neck undulating ever so slightly. “It _is_ good,” Bernie agrees, when the food is gone. Serena nods, unsure of what to say next, feeling so wrong-footed in a situation she knows is so right.

There’s the quiet exchange of personal tidbits, Serena talking about her days as Head Girl, earning a smirk from Bernie at the statement that she’s always liked being in charge. She talks about Sian, how they met, how they’ve somehow managed to stay friends all these years. “Oh, she’s a handful, but she makes me braver, sometimes,” she says, and as the words leave her mouth, she thinks how true it is.

Serena is driven, goal-oriented, sometimes to the point of being unable to see the things that fall by the wayside as she goes after what she’s trying to achieve. Sian provides detours, provides outlets. Serena thinks Bernie might help with that too. She can see Bernie looking at her curiously, knows she’s had a whole thought conversation in her head, decides to just say it out loud, what’s the worst that can happen.

She swallows a sip of her wine, straightens her shoulders as she meets Bernie’s eye. “You should probably know that I’m not very good at this.” She gestures between them at Bernie’s raised eyebrow. “ _This_. Relationships. They’ve never exactly been my strong suit.”

"I don't know if I've somehow given you the idea that I'm a genius at them," Bernie says with a grin, "but let me assure you this is not my forte either."

Serena inclines her head in acknowledgement before pressing on. “For all that Edward was a complete pillock, I can acknowledge that some of the issues were mine. I can get very focused on work and sometimes don’t prioritize the people in my life the way I should.”

"It's been quite some time since I've shared my life with another person," Bernie says, an almost wistful look on her face and Serena wonders what she's thinking of. "I spend so much time and energy keeping work and home separate that it can get a little....ascetic."

“Somehow I doubt abstinence will be our issue,” Serena says with a raise of the eyebrow that makes Bernie chuckle and blush softly. She reaches across the table to take Bernie’s hand once again, warm and strong in her own. “The reason I bring it up is, I don’t want to take you for granted, to give you less than you deserve.”

"Perhaps a new guiding rule for this relationship? Honest communication if something bothers us?" Serena knows Bernie, while making a valid point, is using the idea of the rules as a bit of a joke, can almost imagine making quips about new rules when they're old, in rocking chairs by the fire, feels suffused with warmth at the thought.

“I like the sound of that.” She raises her glass, waits for Bernie to mirror the motion. “Here’s to finding a new set of rules.” The clink of crystal is clear and delicate in the quiet atmosphere of the restaurant. 

She drinks her wine, enjoys the flavor of it on her tongue, is overcome with the urge to taste it in on Bernie's lips and leans forward to briefly kiss her, just a light peck, rubs her nose gently against Bernie's before sitting back in her chair. "This may be one of my best dates."

“It’s certainly an upgrade from a grotty pub in Stepney.”

"It is at that," Serena says.

When the bill is paid, another taxi called, Serena feels almost sorry the night is over. They sit next to each other in the back of the cab and Serena doesn't let go of Bernie's hand during the entire ride.

"Wait here," Bernie tells the driver when he pulls up in front of Serena's house. She walks Serena to the door, stands under the porch light and Serena admires how the light shines in her hair, how the shadows fall across her face.

"I hope a request for a good night kiss isn't out of line," Serena says, her voice low and sweet, reaching out to touch Bernie's cheek, her fingers gentle, her eyes soft.

Bernie presses into her palm, smiles warmly as her hands slip around Serena’s waist. “I think I can manage that…”

The kiss is slow and tender, like it’s the first all over again, their lips brushing together again and again before they settle in place. Serena’s hands slide instinctively into Bernie’s hair, take up their customary spot at the nape of her neck. Bernie's tongue taps against Serena's mouth, slips inside, and Serena sighs at the taste, the feel, her breath swallowed up into Bernie, their bodies pressed against each other, like they were meant to fit together. It's only at the insistent honk of the cab that Serena is able to resist inviting Bernie to come inside, the interruption from the outside world reminding her of their rules, her self-control.

“You should go,” she says breathlessly, “before I can’t let you.”

Bernie nods her agreement, ducks in to press one last kiss against Serena’s lips. “Can I see you again? Outside of work, that is?”

"Name the time and place and I'll be there," Serena smiles warmly and steps back regretfully, lets her hands drop to her sides, fishes her house keys from her purse. "Now off with you, Ms. Wolfe, or that cab driver will be very put out."

-

In some ways, Bernie finds herself surprised by how little actually changes. There is a deeply uncomfortable meeting with human resources, a hoop they’re required to jump through together, which Serena handles with grace while Bernie fights to keep from sinking through her chair, but beyond that things are much the same as they were before. Shared coffee breaks throughout the day, lunches in the cafeteria or out on the bench if the weather cooperates.

Bernie finds, though, that she begins looking forward to the time spent outside of work, the dinners, the drinks, seeing Serena's eyes across the table, gleaming in the candlelight. She likes when they tangle their fingers as they walk down the street, when their shoulders bump and Serena smiles that small, shy smile.

She also very much likes the kissing; the press of Serena’s lips against her cheek in greeting, wine flavored kisses during dinner, heated snogs on Serena’s front porch. The last have been getting more intense with each date, have been getting harder and harder to tear herself away from. She knows it's good, knows they're being mature, taking it all slow, but Bernie also knows what she's missing, and is finding her resistance eroding as time goes by.

They’d made plans to try a new Thai place tonight, but a massive RTC and a crisis with the board keeps them both well past the end of their shifts, leaves them dead on their feet as they shuffle out to the parking lot. Bernie can see the tiredness writ all across Serena’s face, knows hers must look the same.

“What do you say to takeaway at my place, instead?” She offers, catching Serena’s hand. “I’m so knackered I’m likely to fall asleep face first in my tom ka.”

Serena nods, a grateful smile spreading across her tired face, and allows herself to be led to Bernie's car, doesn't even make a fuss about driving herself.

Bernie drives them down the quiet streets of Holby, her headlights illuminating the shadows, the only other light coming from the street lamps. She pulls in front of her house, suddenly worried that her living room won't be clean, that her kitchen might be dirty. She looks at Serena, her eyes closed and her head tipped back, thinks that maybe the mess won't matter.

She ushers Serena through the front door, tells her to make herself comfortable as she ducks through to the kitchen to grab her collection of takeaway menus. When she comes back, she finds Serena has taken her suggestion; her pumps are kicked off beneath the coffee table, her blazer tossed across the back of a chair. She’s curled up on the couch, stocking feet tucked under herself, chin cradled in the hand she has propped on the arm. It’s the first time she’s had Serena over properly and the sight of her like this in her home, cozy and unguarded, fills Bernie’s chest with unexpected warmth.

"What are you feeling?" she asks, handing Serena the menus, content with whatever choice Serena makes.

"Oh, anything is fine. Pizza seems easiest? Just some melted cheese and I'll be content," Serena says without really leafing through anything.

Bernie nods, steps into the kitchen to place the order, goes into her bedroom to put on soft pajama bottoms and an oversized shirt. She comes back into her living room and presses a kiss to Serena's scalp. "You can rifle through my things if you want to get comfortable," she says, brushing her hand through Serena's hair.

Serena leans into the caress with a hum, like a contented cat. “If I change now, I don’t know if I’ll be able to leave later.”

“Stay over then.” The words are out before her overtired mind can consider them and Bernie swallows nervously against the lump that appears in her throat. “I mean, you don’t have to. I just thought…”

Serena laughs, a tired chuckle falling from her lips. "I know, darling," she says, "and as much as I would love that, I don't think that I'm up for any funny business tonight."

"That's not why I invited you to stay," Bernie says, feeling a little childish, scuffing her toes against the floor. "I can sleep on the couch." Serena tilts her head back, dislodges Bernie's hand, and cranes up, arching her back to press her lips to Bernie's.

"Not even for a moment, Bernie. Staying the night sounds lovely. You don't even have to keep your hands to yourself." She pats Bernie's cheek with immeasurable fondness and Bernie can't help the quirking of her lips, the slight blush at Serena's touch.

By the time the pizza arrives, Serena has changed into a pair of baggy sweatpants and a t-shirt that Bernie got for running some 5k ages ago. Seeing Serena dressed in her clothes makes her heart flutter a bit, another unexpected intimacy. She wonders if their life together will be full of these little surprises, if everything will always feel new and special. She stops short while pulling paper towels off the roll, just realizing that she's thought of a future with the two of them, one far down the road, and that she's done it without even a second thought.

They eat pizza together on Bernie’s sofa, straight from the box, laughing at some ridiculous quiz show on the telly. It strikes Bernie that this is a Serena she’s never seen, all of her armor stripped away, nothing hidden behind power suits or rules of engagement. Serena's toes press into the bottom of Bernie's calf as she leans forward to catch a drip of cheese from Bernie's chin on her pinky finger, sucking it off between her lips.

Remaining pizza tucked away in the fridge, they sip wine on the sofa for a while longer, neither entirely willing to end the night just yet, despite their tiredness. Bernie notices Serena stretching her feet against the cushions, curling and releasing her neatly polished toes.

“You all right?”

“Oh, yes it’s just those damn heels.” Bernie reaches for Serena’s ankles and tugs her feet into her lap, Serena’s yelp of surprise fading into a moan as Bernie presses her thumbs against the ball of her right foot.

Serena's eyes close, a low hum of pleasure emanating from her throat, and Bernie smirks as she continues her ministrations, alternating hard and gentle presses, feeling the relaxation flow through Serena's body, sees her shoulders slump slightly, her body go lax. 

"All right, Ms. Campbell," she says after a few more minutes, bending to put Serena's feet on the floor, "Off to bed with us. I'm not quite up to carrying you to the bedroom tonight"

“Does that mean you might be on another night? You certainly know how to woo a girl, Ms. Wolfe.” Serena’s eyes stay closed, but a smile lifts the corners of her mouth and Bernie can’t help but lean down and press her lips against it.

“Bed, now.” Bernie grasps Serena's hand, helps pull her to a standing position, pushes her towards the en suite. "There's a spare toothbrush on the counter for you."

She hears the sounds of Serena getting ready for bed, a calming domestic sound. The faucet runs and Bernie imagines her washing her face, wiping off that red lipstick, the last vestiges of the CEO. 

She turns down the covers on the bed, fluffing the pillows slightly before Serena emerges. They exchange places, Bernie quickly brushing her teeth, and when she returns Serena is already curled up beneath the covers, turned toward the middle of the bed.

Bernie slides under the duvet as well, thinks this is the first time she's ever had a 'side' in this bed. She turns on her side, her head pillowed on one hand, the other reaching out to brush against Serena's cheek. Serena smiles into the touch, reaching out to rest her hand in the dip of Bernie's waist, a gesture that feels warm and familiar, comforting and somewhat terrifying in equal measure. She pushes aside her doubt, her worry, rests her forehead against Serena's and lets her eyes flutter closed.

-

Serena fidgets as she rides the lift down to AAU, rocking back and forth on her heels as she watches the numbers descend impatiently. She holds a manilla envelope in her hand, tapping it rhythmically against her opposite palm.

She doesn't know what's inside, told Bernie she would wait to see the verdict until she did. The board voted without her, thanked her for her input on their decision and closed the door behind her, made her wait in the hallway like a disobedient child. She's never liked being made to wait.

Now it’s hard to keep herself to her usual brisk walk, her heels clicking against the linoleum, hard to resist breaking into a jog to get to Bernie’s office all the faster. When she finally gets there, Bernie is waiting at her desk, spinning back and forth in her chair, hands fiddling with a promotional pen some drug company left behind.

When she sees Serena, her feet plant on the floor, her chair coming to a halt. "Is that it?" she asks, staring not at Serena but at the envelope in her hands. Serena nods, perches on the edge of Bernie's desk and sets it in front of her.

"You open it," she says. "This is yours, it always has been."

Bernie takes the envelope, peering up at Serena through her fringe. “No, it’s ours, no matter what the board says.” The word _ours_ hits Serena in the chest, makes her breath catch.

"Okay," she says, patting Bernie's arm. "Regardless of the outcome, you're coming over to mine after work. There's a bottle of champagne chilling in my fridge that we will drink one way or another."

Bernie nods, gives a tight little smile before turning her attention back to the envelope. Her thumb worries the corner of the flap, pulls it up enough to slip her finger beneath and ease it open. She slips a single sheet of paper free and Serena can’t help but hold her breath as Bernie reads it over. Time seems to dilate, to stretch, until Serena can’t take it anymore.

“Well?”

The smile on her face is broad, her teeth just visible, a rare sight. Her eyes are shining a bit, like there might be tears of happiness just at the edges, waiting to spill. "We did it, Serena," she says, "we've got it."

Adrenaline spikes through Serena’s body, overwhelmed by joy and pride. She rushes around behind Bernie’s chair, leaning over her shoulder to read the words for herself. It’s there, proof in black and white that all of their long hours, their hard work, has been worth it.

"I could kiss you, Ms. Wolfe," she says in low tones, "if we weren't at work."

"If we weren't at work, I'd let you."

Instead Serena curves her hands around Bernie’s shoulders, squeezes them tight, presses her cheek to the messy blonde hair at the crown of her head for just a moment. She feels Bernie’s hand move to cover her own, a connection between them, sharing this moment.

"All right," she says after a moment, standing, brushing at her skirt, becoming the professional head of Holby once more. "I will meet you in the lobby at five o'clock." She tosses a smile over her shoulder as she leaves, thinks the intervening six hours can't go by quickly enough.

She steps off the elevator at 5:03, finds Bernie waiting for her, leaning against a pillar, her bag slung over her shoulder. Serena can’t hold back a smile at the sight of her, quickens her pace a little as she crosses the room.

"You're late, Ms. Campbell," Bernie says, drawing out the words, the l's rolling of the tip of her tongue.

"Sorry we can't all have your impressive grasp on punctuality, Ms. Wolfe," she answers with a smirk, as if it's not usually Bernie running to catch up to Serena, hair a mess, apology on her lips. Serena threads her arm through Bernie's, walks in pace with her to the car, lets go only to unlock the doors.

They don't make a public show of their relationship, not really. They allow themselves light touches here and there, and it's the biggest non-secret in the halls of Holby, but Serena likes these little moments they can subtly telegraph their affection.

It’s something she’s never felt before, this desire to have a relationship be seen, especially at work. In the past, after the debacle that was Edward, she would never reference her relationship status, never meet a date somewhere her co-workers might be. Felt it was easier to keep a firm line between the two.

Now, there are times she wants to shout about Bernie from the rooftops, to hold her hand in the middle of AAU, kiss her in Albie’s. The urges are fleeting, restrained by years of professional discipline, but she does allow herself this, treasures these small moments.

Bernie seems to break all the rules she's made, every time.

She drives to her home, the windows rolled down a bit, Bernie's hair ruffling in the breeze, her hand tucked under Serena's thigh. She pulls into her driveway with practiced ease, leans in to press a kiss to Bernie's lips, her hand at the back of Bernie's head, holding her close. "I've been wanting to do that all day. Congratulations, darling."

Bernie grins, brushes their noses together. “Congratulations to both of us.”

As soon as they’re in the house, Serena goes to the kitchen to retrieve the chilled bottle and two delicate flutes, uses a towel to pull the cork with a soft _pop_. Filling the glasses near to the brim, she hands one to Bernie. "To the lives that will be saved at Holby City Hospital," she starts. Bernie smiles indulgently at the toast from where she's leaning against the tall island in the kitchen. "And to the trauma surgeon, who will no doubt be exhausted in the future, what with all her new responsibilities."

Bernie pushes herself to a standing position, holds her glass as high as Serena's. "And to the brave, long-suffering CEO who will have to tuck her into bed every night." Serena laughs as their glasses touch, lifts the bubbling beverage to her lips and doesn't even blink at the idea that she and Bernie will spend countless nights together in the future.

Serena grabs the bottle of champagne by the neck, walks out to her sitting room, doesn't even look to see if Bernie follows, knows she will. Kicking off her heels, she settles on the sofa, placing the bottle and her glass on the table, Bernie joining her a moment later. They’re sat close together, pressed thigh to thigh, and Serena takes the opportunity to snuggle in closer, pulling her feet up on the cushion as she tucks herself beneath Bernie’s chin, feels an arm wrap securely around her shoulders and sighs in contentment.

They stay like that as the early evening shadows lengthen toward night, curled together on the couch, talking about everything and nothing between glasses of champagne. Serena thinks she’s never had this before, this ease, this comfort with another person. It’s all too easy to imagine doing this every night, far into the future, doesn’t even feel fear at the thought. It simply feels _right_.

"What else did you have in mind for a celebration?" Bernie asks, her voice rumbling against Serena. She laughs, feels the arm around her squeeze once, twice, feels a kiss pressed to her hair. She hasn't been held like this in years, never felt this _cradled_ in recent memory. But she pulls her head back, just enough to see Bernie's eyes, dark and sparkling.

"You know I'm up for anything," she says, a challenge and an invitation all in one.

“Is that right?” Bernie murmurs, her hand moving to tilt Serena’s chin higher, brings their mouths together in a gentle kiss.

Serena pulls back, just out of Bernie's reach, keeps moving away, Bernie following, a game of cat and mouse, a smirk on her lips as she leads Bernie towards the stairs with just the promise of another kiss to lure her. She stops on the lowest step, drapes her arms on Bernie's shoulders and leans down to give her that kiss, slanting her mouth against Bernie's, pulling back just as Bernie's tongue teases at her lips, catching Bernie's hand as she turns and walks up the rest of the stairs.

The moonlight through the sheer curtains is enough to illuminate the interior of her bedroom as they walk through the door. Before Serena can turn, Bernie’s arms wrap around her waist, pulling their bodies flush, nuzzling just behind Serena’s ear. It sends a shiver through Serena and she slides her arms along Bernie’s, tangles their fingers together.

Bernie's hands start to move first, fumbling with the buttons of Serena's blouse, sliding up the material, whispering into her ear how beautiful she is, how lovely. One hand moves towards Serena's skirt, finding the zipper with practiced ease, not the first time she's pulled this garment down Serena's legs.

Serena reaches back to tangle a hand in Bernie’s hair as her hands come to rest on Serena’s hips, one continuing upward to cup her breast through her lacy bra.

“God, I’ve missed you,” Bernie says fervently, her lips brushing against Serena’s neck as Serena tugs her hair a little tighter, holds her ever closer.

"You've seen me almost every day, Ms. Wolfe," Serena says slyly, flirtatiously, enjoying the feeling of Bernie against her, relishing their closeness, willing to admit she's missed Bernie just as much.

"You know what I mean," Bernie rasps against her shoulder. "I've missed this." She kneads Serena's breast through the silky material, Serena's nipple pebbling quickly, she can feel the rush of desire flow through her body. The hand at her hip moves inward, cupping Serena through her knickers, and she can’t help but rut into the touch, feels the rumble of Bernie’s chuckle through her chest. “I think you’ve missed this, too.”

Bernie's hands are so sure, so capable, they know just where to touch Serena, know the places where she's sensitive, where she wants it most. She curls her fingers against the damp fabric and Serena hums low in the back of her throat.

She’s suddenly overcome by the need to feel Bernie, to have her hands on her skin. She manages to turn in Bernie’s arms, quickly parting the buttons on her blouse, even as she feels the clasp on her bra pop free, Bernie’s hands easing the straps over her shoulders. A brief fumble of hands and Bernie’s shirt drifts to the floor, bra following shortly after.

Serena’s eyes flutter shut as they press together, finally skin to skin, Bernie’s lips finding their way once again to her neck as Serena slides her hands along Bernie’s spine, hands spread to touch as much of her as possible.

Bernie's skin tells the story of her life, her fervency, her bravery, her trials, and Serena remembers every scar, every pockmark, every mole. She noses against the faded scar on Bernie's neck, the injury that almost kept their reunion from ever happening.

"Do you think," she starts, her voice breathy, quiet, "every time will feel like the first time?" She wants that, wants the excitement always. Wants the familiarity too. Just wants Bernie, in the end.

Bernie brushes Serena’s hair back, cupping her face in her hands, regards her seriously, eyes black in the silver moonlight. 

“No, I think every time will be better.” Her voice is steady, certain, as if she too has pictured a long future for them and Serena feels the prick of tears against the back of her eyes, can only lean in and kiss Bernie fiercely.

There's an awkward dance toward the bed, Bernie gently urging Serena to sit, bending over her, never ending their kiss, and Serena loves the angle of this, slips her tongue between Bernie's lips, her back arched, her body taut, ready. Keeping their mouths pressed together, Serena leans back, pulls Bernie with her, letting Bernie's body cover her own as they meet on the bed in a tangle of limbs. The pressure is lovely, the feeling is delicious, and Serena's world shrinks down to just the two of them.

Bernie’s mouth leaves a trail of heat and wetness as she works her way down Serena’s torso, laving her breasts with nips and licks, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the swell of her abdomen, as her hands push Serena’s knickers down her legs. The first touch of her mouth between Serena’s thighs has her gasping, clutching at the duvet as Bernie licks into her without hesitation.

The moon is bright tonight, up earlier and earlier as the days grow shorter, and Serena's bedroom is bathed in moonlight, a silver glow making everything ethereal as her hands fist in the sheets, Bernie's hair a halo between her thighs.

She wondered if this would feel different, now that their arrangement is behind them and they’ve embarked on this new relationship, if there would be more emotion, a new sense of connection between them. What makes her heart race is that it feels exactly the same, just as powerful and overwhelming and perfect as it has always been. She realizes that this has been there between them all along, since that first night, just waiting for them to admit it. A wave of emotion fills her chest as her pleasure crests, and she cries out with Bernie’s name on her lips.

Bernie pulls from between Serena's legs with soft kisses to her thighs, gentle pecks as she moves back up Serena's body and Serena draws her close, slides a leg between Bernie's, lets the other woman rut against her thigh, feels Bernie's wetness mingling with her own on her skin.

She rolls them over, slips a hand between their bodies as she settles between Bernie’s thighs, watching avidly as Bernie’s head falls back with a groan, Serena’s fingers surround by liquid heat. Her hair is splayed across the pillow, almost white in the moonlight, face drawn in a grimace of pleasure; Serena thinks she’s never seen anything more beautiful.

Her fingers are quick, light, dancing around Bernie's clit, bringing her towards the edge with her teasing touch, just watching Bernie's mouth, her eyes, wonders how she ever thought Bernie closed off, wonders how she ever managed to convince herself she could be unaffected by spending time together.

She can feel the tension in Bernie’s body, the circling of her hips, experience telling Serena she’s close as much as the feel of blunt nails biting into her skin. Bernie’s eyes open suddenly, wide and dark and captivating, her voice breathy as she whispers Serena’s name. The quiet plea is enough for Serena to focus her fingers, to drive it home, to make Bernie's body spasm in ecstasy. Her stomach is taut in the low light, the moon making her scars silver, and then she relaxes like a bowstring just loosened, and Serena can't stop herself from leaning in, from kissing Bernie's soft, sated lips.

They tangle together, all loose limbs and flushed skin, kissing slowly and sweetly, no thoughts of boundaries, no pulling away. There's no talk of heading home, of parting from each other. Serena just draws the duvet over them, rests her head close to Bernie’s, their noses almost touching as they share space on the pillow.

She thinks of waking next to this same tousled blonde head all those years ago, thinks of the fear and doubt and worry that spiked through her. She presses her lips to Bernie's once more, a breathy "good night, darling" whispering out on an exhale. There's no anxiety in her now, just a quiet serenity over taking her as her eyes flutter closed, the sound of Bernie's even breathing beside her.

-

Serena can feel the sense of being watched as she slowly wakes, the warm weight of Bernie still beside her, her head pillowed on Bernie's chest, an arm across her stomach. Bernie's hand is in her hair, toying with the short strands, and Serena knows those dark eyes are looking down at her.

She cranes her head back, moving just enough to see Bernie, to see the soft smile on her lips. “Good morning,” she says, voice still rough from sleep. Bernie smiles, kisses her, morning breath and all and Serena finds she doesn't mind, not when the sour taste is accompanied by such a sweet smile, with the light blush ringing Bernie's cheeks.

“This is nice,” Bernie murmurs when they part, hand still stroking through Serena’s hair. “Waking up together, I mean.”

"It is," Serena hums in agreement. "But you've rarely seen me before coffee and I'm not sure today is the day for that." Serena is not particular good at lazy mornings, at sitting idly, even if she can so clearly imagine a day spent in bed with Bernie Wolfe.

Bernie chuckles in response, pecks another soft kiss to her lips. “Coffee it is, then.”

They untangle from one another, slipping out of the warm haven of Serena’s bed into the slightly chill room. Serena grabs her dressing gown from the back of her chair, pulling it over her naked body. She turns to offer clothes to Bernie, but finds she’s already grabbed the bright silk blouse Serena wore the night before, buttoning it over her lean frame where it falls to mid thigh, her long legs enticingly bare beneath.

Serena has to stop herself from pinning Bernie against the wall, the sight of her wearing her own clothes making a thread of desire drip down her spine, pooling at her thighs, a pleasantly familiar feeling. She clears her throat, shakes her head. "Downstairs," she says, her brain unable to quite form a full sentence, and she heads towards the staircase, hearing the soft padding of Bernie's feet behind her.

They work together in companionable silence, Serena starting the coffee pot as she hands Bernie the makings for toast. The kitchen is large, but they still find ways to be in one another’s space; arms brushing and hips gently bumping as they move around the room.

Serena pours Bernie a mug of coffee, steam rising and hitting her cheeks. "Do you have anything planned for the day?" she asks, sipping from her own mug, her other hand resting on the tie of her robe.

"No, I've got nothing on the docket. Why, do you need me out of your hair?" Bernie looks suddenly worried like she's overstayed her welcome, like there's some rule she's broken, and Serena hurries to reassure her.

"No, no, stay as long as you want," she says, thinks about the possibility of spending another night in Bernie's arms, waking up to that messy halo in the morning.

"Another night? Two?” Bernie pauses slightly before adding, “Forever?" Her voice is suddenly hopeful, all worry erased. Serena beams, sets her mug on the counter, holds her hand out to Bernie and draws her in for a kiss, warm and soft, like a promise, like she’ll kiss her like this until the end of time. They slowly make their way back up the stairs to her bedroom, an inexorable pull to the bed, the rumpled sheets, the duvet that smells like _them_. 

They’re pressed so close together, it’s hard to tell where one begins and the other ends. Bare legs tangle as Serena’s hands trace Bernie’s curves, every time feeling like the first time, the best time. She lingers on sensitive spots, the places she’s learned well, the soft areas that let her tease out noises of pleasure, of need, wrung from Bernie’s happy mouth.

Her lips are at Bernie’s jaw, her neck, her collarbone, she makes a trail down Bernie’s bare stomach, buttery light from the sun making everything seem gilded and beautiful. 

“Forever,” she murmurs against Bernie’s hip.

“Forever,” she whispers against Bernie’s navel.

“Forever,” she hums against Bernie’s thigh.

“Forever,” she hears echoed from Bernie’s lips, a breathy promise, a vow spun from silken thread, a web spun around them in the morning light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all for reading and commenting along the way - we hope you enjoyed this journey


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